


'cause you're on your own (in the real world)

by canistakahari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott only invites Derek over the first time because he thinks he's lonely. It gets a lot more complicated from there, but to be honest,  Scott doesn't really mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause you're on your own (in the real world)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts), [affectingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/gifts).



> So, I initially started writing this fic as a thank you present for daunt and affectingly in February 2014, and now it's January 2015, and basically I'm terrible and slow and can't finish anything, ever. But... here it finally is. Done. 
> 
> Daunt and Amber helped me write it, every step of the way: their ideas and suggestions and jokes and lines are woven throughout the entire fic; they sat in chat with me and encouraged me to keep going when I got stuck, and I started it for them but couldn't have actually written it or finished it without them. They are really lovely, really excellent friends. <3 Thank you guys. I'm sorry it took so long to actually get it posted. I love you.
> 
> This fic goes canon-divergent post 3A and doesn't touch on anything at all from seasons 3B and 4. It takes place in Scott, Stiles, Lydia, and Allison's senior year, pre-college.

Scott runs into Derek at the grocery store. 

He’s in the frozen food aisle, putting burritos in his cart, when he looks up and spots Derek standing in front of the fruit juice, his arms crossed tight over his chest and his shoulders hunched up like he’s having a crisis over deciding between grapefruit passion berry blast and guava mango explosion.

“Hey, Derek,” says Scott, but Derek doesn’t turn around. “...Rude.”

Derek reaches out for a carton and then drops his hand, apparently changing his mind at the last second.

“Yo, _Derek_ ,” repeats Scott, pushing his cart over to the wall of juice and abandoning it in favour of sidling in next to Derek and hip-checking him.

“Jesus Christ!” says Derek, stumbling to the right, his head swiveling to pin Scott with an offended scowl. He very pointedly pulls his earbuds out. “Scott.”

“Oops,” says Scott, grinning sheepishly. “I thought you were ignoring me.” He pauses. “Are you listening to Chariots of Fire?”

“No,” says Derek, too quickly. He fumbles to pull his phone out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

“I can hear it,” points out Scott. “You’re listening to Chariots of Fire in the grocery store.” He reaches out to grab a carton of sour cherry juice and hands it to Derek solemnly. “Here’s your gold medal.”

Derek wrinkles his nose and puts it back. “No thanks.”

“Do you want to do a slow motion run with me down the dairy aisle?” asks Scott, raising his eyebrows.

“Not particularly,” responds Derek. After a prolonged staring contest with Tropicana orange juice (no pulp), Derek reaches past it and selects pomegranate cocktail. He puts it into his cart where it joins a huge bunch of kale and two cartons of eggs.

“Your loss,” says Scott. He pulls out his phone and sends Derek a text that says “ _want to come over tonight to play video games_?” and then puts it away.

He can hear Derek’s phone buzz in his pants a second later; grins as Derek slides it out and frowns at the screen. “Was that really necessary?” asks Derek, looking up at Scott.

“I have unlimited texting,” says Scott.

Derek rubs the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll bring cookies.”

oOo

“I understand the urge,” says Stiles. He’s sitting sideways on the couch, his legs in Scott’s lap. There’s a bag of chips open on his belly and he’s fishing them out with one hand and getting crumbs and oil all over the Xbox controller. “You see him there, grocery shopping alone, and think about him going back to his apartment, alone, and eating dinner, alone, and it bothers you. I get that. You’re a good person, Scott.”

Scott represses a sigh. “Stiles—”

“Friday nights,” Stiles says, raising his voice a little bit to talk over Scott. “Every Friday night, since we were eleven. Scott and Stiles. Stiles and Scott. Snacks and video games. Every week.”

“I know!” says Scott. “Dude, I’m sorry, I just—”

“Does Derek even know how to play video games?” continues Stiles, as undaunted as a bulldozer. “Can you actually picture him doing it?”

There’s a long pause. Scott clears his throat pointedly. “He’s pretty good at Bioshock.”

“Why do you even know that?” asks Stiles, turning to fix Scott with an expression that’s equal parts disbelief and scorn with a dash of theatrical betrayal. “Dude, have you been hanging out without me?”

“Are you jealous?” counters Scott.

“No,” says Stiles flatly. “You’d have to be a masochist to be jealous of Derek Hale. I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

“Derek Hale,” says Scott slowly, “doesn’t want my body. Derek Hale is probably just lonely.”

Derek Hale chooses that moment to ring the doorbell.

“Are we making bets on whether he heard all that?” asks Stiles, after several prolonged seconds of awkward silence.

“Hopefully he’s listening to Chariots of Fire again,” mutters Scott under his breath. He pushes Stiles’s legs off his lap, leans over to kiss him, and then gets up to answer the door.

“I brought cookies,” announces Derek, when Scott opens the door for him. His ears and neck are bright red.

“That’s awesome,” says Scott, ushering him inside. “That is so great. Did you make them? Wow. Wow.”

oOo

It’s not actually as awkward as Scott fears it will end up being.

Stiles and Derek have their own weird rapport and as soon as Derek sits down Stiles says, perfectly serious, “Tell me the truth, big guy. How hard is it to play Street Fighter with your paws,” and Derek just replies with, “I’ve never played Street Fighter. We had a Sega Genesis and Laura and I played Mortal Kombat,” without missing a beat. 

Stiles throws a handful of popcorn at Derek and yells, “ _Flawless victory_!” and Scott doesn’t really understand why the tension in the room drops to manageable levels but it does.

He goes into the kitchen half an hour later to get more soda and has the misfortune of hearing Derek say the words, “I don’t want Scott’s body,” out loud.

“I know, asshole,” says Stiles. “But in case you ever get any funny ideas, I am totally all over that hotness.”

“I know,” says Derek, sounding pained. “Everyone with a nose is perfectly aware.”

“Anyway,” says Stiles after a minute, his voice softening a bit. “It’s cool. I know you just want to be friends. I’m not actually jealous, and, like, if you ever needed—and if Scott was cool with it, we could—”

“ _Stiles_ ,” says Derek sharply. “This is not where I envisioned this conversation ending up.”

“I’m just saying,” says Stiles. Scott can practically hear his shrug. “I’m not actually a total asshole, you know. It’s okay that Scott invited you to our games night. You’re part of our pack.”

The silence that follows this statement is ringing.

Scott can hear Derek’s heart beating, fast and loud. He’s tempted to go back into the living room and give him a hug.

“Thanks,” says Derek roughly.

“Don’t make it weird, bro,” says Stiles. “Are you crying?”

“You’re a terrible person, Stiles,” says Derek.

“Yeah, we’ve totally been over this before,” says Stiles easily. “Do you want to play another round?”

Scott rubs his face and stands in front of the fridge, trying to process the fact that Derek smells like salt right now.

Weirdest Friday night ever.

oOo

“These are, like, _really_ good,” says Stiles, his mouth full of chocolate chip cookie. “Where did you get them?”

Derek hesitates. His gaze bounces around the room for a second like he’s looking for a back-up plan or an escape route but he’s currently trapped under two sets of legs and a large box of cookies and the situation is pretty hopeless.

“I made them,” Derek finally replies.

“With his own two paws,” offers Scott helpfully, taking another cookie and taking a big bite.

“Right,” drawls Derek. “Thank you, Scott.”

“Ohhhh Derek Hale can bake,” says Stiles. “What a time to be alive.”

“I’m regretting my desperate bid for friendship right now,” says Derek. “I’m having second thoughts.”

Scott passes him the controller. “That’s totally natural. Here. Your turn.”

oOo

Derek leaves just after midnight, even though they offer him the guest bedroom if he wants to sleep over, so Scott sends him home with a bag full of leftover snacks and a tight hug on the front doorstep.

Derek clings. Scott isn’t expecting that. He’s expecting the type of hug that isn’t really a hug at all, just a barely-there press of arms and body and maybe a brief pat on the back, but when Scott hugs him Derek actually puts his arms fully around Scott in return and gives him a warm comfortable squeeze for a good five seconds before pulling away. It’s a nice hug.

“Thanks,” says Derek, turning away to walk to his car. He doesn’t make eye contact and he still smells a bit like salt.

oOo

Stiles is curled up on his side of the couch when Scott comes back inside, not quite asleep but not quite awake. He’s turned off the Xbox and turned the channel over to late night television.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” asks Scott, sitting down next to him, his hip pressed up against Stiles’s butt.

“Nah, that was pretty cool,” says Stiles, speaking around a yawn. “Today I learned that Derek can be a real boy if he tries.”

Scott chuckles, tracing the exposed line of Stiles’s hip where his shirt has ridden up.

“Tickles,” mumbles Stiles, shivering. His eyes are heavy-lidded and half-closed, lashes curving against his cheek.

Scott curls against his side, pulling his knees up and tucking his head into Stiles’s shoulder. He’s always liked the way they fit together. 

“I don’t really want to kiss anybody other than you,” murmurs Stiles. His body is warm and comfortable, half-tucked under Scott’s body. “But I think I would be okay with, like, giving Derek a hand-job, if he was into that. Sometimes he seems so starved for touch, you know? Like he just needs Derek-centric affection. Maybe just hugs? I’d be cool with, like, watching you make out with him or something, too.” He tenses up a little, as if what he’s saying is only just now filtering back to his brain. “Scotty, is that too weird?”

“Nah,” says Scott soothingly, nuzzling Stiles’s ear with his nose. “I think I’m following your train of thought as it careens off the tracks and crashes into a ravine.”

Stiles turns his face to Scott, expectant, and Scott rolls his eyes before ducking in to kiss him.

It’s a lazy, sloppy kiss, all tongue, and when Scott goes to pull back, Stiles sinks his teeth into his lower lip and tugs, drawing a startled groan out of Scott.

“You like it a little rough, huh, Scott,” drawls Stiles, his cheeks flushed with colour, eyes opening to reveal thin brown irises and blown-wide pupils. The corner of his mouth quirks, kiss-swollen lips curving into a sharp smirk.

Scott licks a drop of blood from his lip and huffs at him as he scoots back on the couch. “Are you tired or drunk?”

“Can you get drunk on chocolate chip cookies?” asks Stiles, stretching leisurely. “Man, those were really good. Do you think he wears an apron when he bakes? I want to get him one that says, like, ‘Dressed to Grill.’”

“Talking to you like is like emotional whiplash,” says Scott. “Does this mean you want Derek to come back for video games and possibly makeouts?”

“I don’t know yet,” says Stiles, sitting up. He grabs the hem of Scott’s shirt. “What I _do_ know is that we should definitely get naked right now.”

“Yeah,” says Scott, his breath hitching. “Okay.”

“Jeeze, Scott,” says Stiles, when Scott is shirtless. He strokes up his sides and then back down, sliding his thumbs into the divots of his hips. “Your body is so unfair.”

“Your _face_ is unfair,” says Scott. He tugs Stiles’s shirt with one hand. “Clothes.”

“Working on it,” says Stiles.

Scott pushes him down when he’s got it halfway off, the collar still tangled around his neck, kissing him helpfully.

“Not speeding up the process, Scott,” Stiles gasps into his mouth, hands fumbling for purchase, but he gives easily enough, mouth opening hot and slick for Scott, hips arching into the press of Scott’s thigh.

They don’t actually get all the way naked before Scott manages to get his hand around both their dicks to jerk them off and Stiles’s shirt ends up suffering a totally unforeseen jizz-stained fate.

Friday nights, man.

oOo

“Oh hey,” Stiles says, when they run into Derek at the gas station the next afternoon. “Those cookies were _amazing_. Did you put drugs in them or something? Because dude.”

Derek leans an elbow on the Camaro while he fills the tank and does a pretty good job of keeping his expression neutral as he levels his gaze at Stiles. “No, Stiles,” he says. “I did not put drugs in my nana’s chocolate chip cookies.” Then the neutrality crumbles into a mask of horror as he realises what he’s just said.

Stiles’s eyebrows leap up. “You made us your nana’s cookies,” he says slowly.

“Shut up,” says Derek tightly, glaring at the gas pump like he can will it to fill the tank faster.

“No, man,” says Stiles, pulling his hood up against the light drizzle that’s been blanketing Beacon Hills since mid-morning. “It’s definitely a healthy human behaviour to engage in. That’s pretty great.”

Derek carefully scrutinizes his face for sarcasm and then relaxes a little, apparently deciding that, for Stiles, this is being sincere. He’s not wrong.

“I’m going to get some snacks,” says Scott, because that’s half the reason he actually left the house with Stiles. “Do you want anything?”

“Jerky,” says Stiles, which is what he always says. The sodium content makes Scott cringe.  
Derek just shrugs, which Scott just translates into ‘jerky’ anyway because he always has trouble conjuring concrete memories of Derek eating food and it’s taking him a long time to formulate a mental menu of things Derek actually likes.

Scott is standing by the counter, selecting a medley of beef jerky flavours, when Stiles and Derek start to talk; he shouldn’t do it, he knows he shouldn’t listen in, but they’re talking at normal volume, and they’re talking about him, kind of, standing around with their hands in their pockets like awkward ducks, feet splayed, when Scott peers out the gas station’s window at them.

“You smell like Scott,” Derek is saying, apparently just to make conversation, because, well, it’s Derek. “You know. More than usual.”

“Why, thank you,” says Stiles, preening a little. “ _Eau de McCall_ , a little musky, a hint of fresh cut grass and earth. Nah, I’m wearing his clothes.” There’s a deeply pregnant pause. “Also, we had sex last night.”

Derek’s heartbeat is so loud Scott is almost surprised the clerk can’t hear it. Scott scoops up his jerky and the bag of kettle chips he picked out for himself, throws a ten dollar bill at him and says, “Keep the change!”

When he gets back into the parking lot, Derek’s cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing deep and regular through his nose; Stiles is leaning up against the Camaro with his hands in the pocket of Scott’s hoodie, watching something up the road. He hasn’t noticed that Derek has angled in close to aggressively sniff him.

“Yo,” says Scott, elbowing Derek. 

Derek stands up straight and shoots Scott a half-scandalized, half-embarrassed look.  
Scott shoves the bag of beef jerky in his face and smiles. “Don’t eat it all at once.”

“Where’s mine?” asks Stiles, turning back towards them and blinking in surprise at their proximity to him. “Whoa. Hey guys. Derek didn’t even _ask_ for jerky.”

“Here. I got you smoky barbecue,” says Scott. 

Stiles lights up and reaches out to grab it, which is exactly when Derek chooses to lean in and audibly inhale, the tip of his nose hovering near Stiles’s throat. 

“Hey, buddy,” says Stiles, freezing. “You’re awfully close, huh.” He swallows, throat bobbing, and his gaze skitters to Scott, raising his eyebrows in abject confusion. He can’t tell if Derek is just innocently inhaling his scent or is seconds away from making good on a very old threat to rip his throat out with his teeth. 

“You smell like me,” offers Scott, like that’s even remotely close to explaining what’s running through Derek’s head here. “It’s—complicated.” 

Derek reluctantly pulls away and they all have to take a moment to remember how to move again, Stiles reclaiming his position leaning up against Derek’s car, feigning casualness even as his cheeks redden a bit. 

“So Derek is into me smelling like you,” says Stiles. “That’s...circular.”

“Not really,” says Scott; the tips of his ears flush hot. “It’s, you smell like me, you smell like pack, it’s a good smell.”

Stiles ponders this, cocking his head. “Okay. But I thought you said you didn’t want Scott’s body,” he says to Derek.

“What? I don’t,” Derek says quickly, pointedly not looking at Scott as he lies, but it’s obvious in the way his heart skips a beat. He pulls open the car door and gets in. “I have to go now.”

“Did he pay for his gas?” asks Scott as they watch the Camaro pull back onto the road with a dramatic squeal of tires. 

“Yeah, man,” says Stiles. “Paypass.” He pauses. “He paid for mine, too.”

“Huh,” says Scott, grinning crookedly. 

They get into the Jeep, Stiles pulling open his package of beef jerky and shoving a piece into his mouth before he starts the engine. “So I’m guessing Derek does actually want your body.”

“I think maybe he does,” admits Scott. “I’m not sure, though. He’s super confused.”

“Why was he smelling me, then?” asks Stiles. “I mean, he wasn’t all over you with his nose and his weird glazed eyes.”

“My scent is all over you,” says Scott, and it makes him a little warm to say it, his stomach tightening pleasantly. Stiles smells like him, all over, wearing Scott’s old jeans with the hole in the knee and his spare lacrosse hoodie and a Fall Out Boy t-shirt Stiles grabbed from his dresser today when he realised he’d forgotten a change of clothes at home. Scott shivers happily. “It’s a wolf thing, I guess. I think it makes him feel good, that… pack-scent. Mine and yours.”

Stiles pulls the Jeep out onto the road and flips the wipers on as the light mist starts to turn into pattering rain drops. “So, uh. Does it make _you_ feel good, too?”

The blush spreads down from the tips of Scott’s ears to his cheeks and throat and he smiles. “Yeah. I like it.” 

“Coulda told me this sooner, buddy,” Stiles says warmly. He clears his throat. “So last night. When I mentioned Derek… As a possible—” He lifts a hand off the steering wheel and waves it meaningfully in the air.

“Yeah,” says Scott, nodding. 

“Does this mean he’d be into it. As least, with you.”

Scott shrugs. “Dude, maybe. We’ll have to see if he can ever even look us in the eyes again, though.”

“Point,” agrees Stiles. 

They lapse into silence, Stiles pulling the Jeep onto Scott’s street and parking in the driveway. “You staying over again tonight?” asks Scott. 

“Yeah,” says Stiles, turning off the engine. “Why not.”

oOo

Melissa appears in the evening, not even remotely questioning Stiles’s presence in her living room and also in her son’s clothes, so Scott makes them all grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner. Stiles washes the dishes and Melissa waves at them sleepily, says, “For the love of god, please put your sheets in the wash tomorrow,” and goes upstairs to fall asleep in front of Game of Thrones.

In Scott’s bedroom, Stiles pads over to his bed and crawls between the covers, flopping down on his stomach, so Scott follows him, scooting in to press up against the length of Stiles’s lax body, an arm slung over his waist. Under the covers, it smells strongly of him and Stiles, all muddled together with the sweat-musk scent of sex and unwashed sheets and it should be super gross but Scott just turns his face so he can snuffle along Stiles’s bent throat, taking deep, indulgent breaths. 

“Now _you’re_ smelling me, too,” mumbles Stiles, already half-way asleep. 

Scott exhales through his nose just to watch Stiles shiver. “You smell good.”

“Because I smell like you?”

“Kind of. Because you smell like me and you.”

“That’s surprisingly sexual,” mutters Stiles. “Also kinda gross. It smells pretty rank in here, dude.”

“Nah,” mumbles Scott. “S’good. You just don’t get it.”

“Smells ripe. Like farts,” continues Stiles.

“It does not,” chuckles Scott. “You’re so gross.”

“ _I’m_ gross?” protests Stiles. “You’re the one that’s totally content to marinate in our combined funk and pretend it smells nice.”

Scott just buries his nose into the nape of Stiles’s neck in reply, right along his hairline, and draws in a couple of deep lingering breaths. “It does. It smells warm and lived-in and comfy.”

Stiles grunts. “You want to live in me, like a house.”

That sounds creepy and wrong, like Scott wants to wear Stiles’s skin as a coat or something. He’s not a serial killer. Scott opens his mouth to say so, but then he thinks about it a little more and yeah, he kind of does. He wants to bury himself in Stiles’s scent. Sometimes Stiles makes him so crazy with want that he wishes he could just crawl into his skin with him and just stay there, sharing space, tucking himself close to the beat of Stiles’s heart.

“Yeah,” says Scott. “But not in a weird way.”

Stiles starts to laugh, muffled by the mattress, and he doesn’t stop until Scott rolls him over, tugs down his pajama pants, and swallows his dick.

oOo

On Sunday, Stiles helps Scott strip the bed and throw everything into the wash. He wears Scott’s clothes home, after he checks his phone and says, “Dad’s on his way home from work so I’m going to go make him breakfast,” and Scott takes a shower and then goes back to bed for a bit.

In the afternoon, he does his chemistry homework, cleans the bathroom, and makes himself a sandwich. 

He’s eating it over the sink when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

**derek hale** : what’s solid state

For a moment, Scott just stares at his phone, chewing industriously. 

**scott mccall** : I’m not sure I understand the question. WAS it a question?

 **derek hale** : what is a solid state hard drive ?

Scott is kind of charmed by how the question mark is very clearly an afterthought. 

**scott mccall** : ummm well they don’t have a head that moves and reads the disk. 

**derek hale** : can you give me pros and cons here scott 

**scott mccall** : SSDs are faster, they don’t make noise, and they don’t draw much power or heat up  
 **scott mccall** : but they’re expensive and they don’t have as much storage as regular hard drives

 **derek hale** : I see

For about ten minutes, there’s no other reply. Scott brushes crumbs off his hands and cleans up the counter, wondering if that’s the last he’s going to hear on this topic.

He’s on the couch, about to turn on the Xbox, when his phone buzzes again. 

**derek hale** : can you please meet me at the best buy on oak lane  
 **derek hale** : I don’t know what to do  
 **derek hale** : don’t tell stiles

 **scott mccall** : be there in ten

oOo

Scott finds Derek hovering over the laptop demos, frowning at the neat labels that detail all the specifications. He’s got his arms crossed tight over his chest and his shoulders are hunched up near his ears. There isn’t a single salesperson near him; it’s like he’s created a customer service dead-zone.

“Scott,” Derek says when he sees him, a little desperately. “How fast should the processor be? I don’t know what version of Windows this is. Why’s it all broken up into little coloured boxes? Do I need a good video card?”

“Why didn’t you ask someone for help?” says Scott, bumping Derek gently with his shoulder. 

“I did,” says Derek. “I am. I’m asking you.”

“What do you want to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” says Derek. “Get email. Go on the internet. Pay bills.” He gestures helplessly. “Computer things.”

“Okay,” says Scott. “I’ll help you pick one out.”

They spend about half an hour pouring over specs and prices while Scott patiently whittles down the list of things Derek wants to be able to do with a computer and tries to weed out useless features and focus on speed and usability. Derek literally doesn’t care about price, but they end up agreeing on a slim, mid-range machine with good memory, a moderately-sized solid state drive, and a fast processor. 

“Laura picked out the computer we had in New York,” Derek offers as they walk out of Best Buy with a box in Derek’s arms. “I didn’t use it much. For homework, sometimes.”

Scott waits, hoping for more, but Derek seems to be done sharing. When they reach the Camaro, Derek puts the computer in the trunk.

“Do you need help setting it up?” asks Scott. 

“Probably,” says Derek.

oOo

“Um,” says Scott, as he unpacks the laptop onto Derek’s table. “You have internet, right?”

“Oh,” says Derek. “Yeah. Over there, in the box.”

Scott’s about to become the person that has to tell Derek the internet doesn’t come in boxes, but then he actually looks over where Derek is pointing and, yeah, that’s a brand new modem. 

“Wow, great,” says Scott. “Okay.”

By the time Scott is finished setting up Derek’s internet connection and getting the laptop going, it’s late afternoon, and Derek is asleep in a patch of sunlight on his bed, curled on his side like a cat, chest rising and falling peacefully. 

Scott sighs, finishes creating a Gmail account for him, and closes the laptop. 

He’s tempted to join Derek’s nap. Is that weird? Nah. He’s the alpha. 

Derek’s eyes slit open when Scott crawls onto the bed, but he doesn’t tense up or otherwise object; in fact, his eyelids just droop closed again as soon as he verifies the person climbing onto the bed with him is, in fact, Scott. It’s as close to tacit permission that Scott’s gonna get, probably. 

So Scott gets comfortable, scooting up close to Derek’s sun-warmed body, and when Derek doesn’t try to move away, Scott slings an arm around his waist like he would if he was napping with Stiles. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to fall asleep, but he must, because the next time he opens his eyes, the sunlight is gone. Derek is still there, though, his head tucked under Scott’s chin, breath puffing against his skin. Scott has no idea what time it is and he can’t remember where he left his phone. 

He’s wondering how to get up without disturbing Derek when the sound of a key turning in the lock filters distantly into his ears. Scott smothers a yawn and slides his hand up Derek’s arm. 

The door to the loft slides open and footsteps move into the room. 

Scott feels it when Derek shifts into wakefulness and he slides his fingers into his hair, scratching lazily at his scalp; it’s only Stiles. 

“What does a guy have to do to get in on a cuddle pile?” asks Stiles, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands on his hips. “I am deeply offended, here.”

Scott angles a crooked grin his way. “Hey, dude. Sorry. What time is it?”

“It’s ‘your mom texted me wondering where you were’ o’clock,” says Stiles. He holds up his phone. “Luckily, I’ve got your phone in my GPS tracker. Is Derek ignoring me? I think Derek is ignoring me.”

“Derek is asleep,” mutters Derek, nosing into Scott’s chest. “Please leave a message after the tone.”

Stiles blinks, momentarily speechless. 

“Hey,” says Scott, before Stiles can muster up an equally snotty reply. “Come here.”

“Come where,” says Stiles flatly. 

Derek shifts, huffing out a sigh. “Get in the bed, genius.”

“‘ _I don’t want Scott’s body_ ,’” says Stiles, in a voice apparently meant to mimic Derek. He does, however, kick off his sneakers and get onto the bed, avoiding Derek’s side of the bed and finding a spot beside Scott. 

“Wow,” says Scott, rolling onto his back and dislodging Derek, who makes an irritated noise. “Can we just acknowledge the sexual tension happening on this mattress right now. I’m acknowledging it.” He waves a hand in the air above their heads. “Right here. Can you feel the love tonight?”

“Is that a computer?” asks Stiles, propping himself up on his elbow. “Is that a _modem_? Did the bank stop accepting your checks, Derek?”

“They’re going paperless,” says Derek dryly. 

Stiles starts to laugh. He stops abruptly and then grabs a pillow, smacking it lengthwise so that it hits Derek and Scott both. “You went computer shopping without me! You assholes.”

“Hey!” sputters Scott, laughing. “Are you really going to pretend that wouldn’t have been a disaster? Derek would’ve ended up with a Macbook Pro.”

“ _You_ have a Macbook Pro,” says Stiles. “ _I_ have a Macbook Pro. Macs are perfectly user-friendly machines! Perfectly _Derek_ -friendly machines, I might add. Why didn’t you get him a Mac? He can afford it.”

Derek sighs loudly. “I’ve used computers before. I’m not June Cleaver.”

There’s a long pause. “Is he making a joke,” asks Stiles.

“He might be,” says Scott. “It’s hard to be sure.”

The look on Derek’s face would probably translate to something like _UGH, YOUTHS_ if it could be rendered textually. 

“I am super hungry,” says Stiles, flopping onto Scott and rubbing his cheek on his chest. “Derek. Make me a sandwich.”

“Make your own sandwich, Stiles,” says Derek. 

“I’d rather you make it for me.”

“I’d rather you shut up.”

“Scott,” hisses Stiles. “Make him make me a sandwich.”

“Can you seriously just make out and get this over with,” groans Scott.

For a moment, Scott just listens to them both breathing. Compares the nervous syncopated _thud_ of their heartbeats, waiting them both out.

Then Stiles says, voice rough, “Maybe I’d rather see you kiss Derek.”

“Hey,” says Scott softly, turning towards Derek and running a hand up his side. Derek’s looking at him with dark, steady eyes, breathing raggedly through his nose. Scott can smell his interest; not quite arousal, not yet, but Derek is attentive and responsive to his touch. He’s the one to close the gap between them, stopping short of a kiss, just close enough for their noses to brush. 

“Yeah,” says Stiles, in that same broken-open tone. He’s pushed himself up, knees tucked into the small of Scott’s back, and his fingers tangle in Scott’s sleeve. “Scotty, do it.”

Scott doesn’t, though. Derek is looking at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted, expectant, and Scott doesn’t lean in to kiss him because there’s something guarded about Derek’s expression. Something that’s almost daring him to just go ahead and take, and Scott is stubborn. 

“Derek,” he murmurs. Derek’s eyelids flutter. Scott’s not sure it’s going to work, starts worrying Derek’s going to get fed up and just turn away, but then Derek abruptly closes the gap between them and seals their lips together with an over-eager clack of teeth. 

Scott’s never kissed someone with a beard before.

It’s kinda soft.

“What kind of Instagram filter should I use?” says Stiles, as he snaps a picture on his phone. 

“What—” Derek starts to say against Scott’s mouth, but Scott curls his hand into his hair and tugs, swallowing his words before Derek even finishes forming them. Derek groans helplessly, a raw, vulnerable sound that settles in the pit of Scott’s belly, stirring something instinctual and deeply protective in him. Once he’s parted Derek’s lips with his tongue, it’s hard to slow himself down, opening him up with slow, wet, leisurely kisses until Derek is pliant and relaxed against him. 

“Holy shit,” mutters Stiles, shifting against him. The familiar scent of his arousal hits Scott right in the gut.

In his arms, Derek is flushed and panting, Scott distinctly aware of the hard line of his dick nudging Scott’s hip. He flicks his tongue lazily against Derek’s lower lip, sucking it into his mouth. Derek just sighs, his eyelashes a dark curve against his cheek, apparently so blissed out he can’t even keep his eyes open. 

“You seem to have broken him, dude,” says Stiles, vaguely impressed. “Maybe he needs to reboot.”

Scott chuckles, brushing his nose against Derek’s cheek. “Derek?”

“I’m fine,” says Derek. Then, “I’m not a robot.” He doesn’t really sound fine. Scott can feel it when he loses the lax pliancy to his muscles, fine tremors running down his arms and back as he begins to tense up. After a minute of clenching his fingers open and closed, Derek sits up, pushing his legs off the end of his bed. 

“This is—sorry,” he says tightly. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

“Um,” says Scott, turning to look at Stiles. Equally at a loss, Stiles just shrugs at him. “Derek…”

“Thanks for helping me with the computer,” says Derek. He makes the briefest eye contact with Scott and then can’t even look in Stiles’s general direction. It’s hard not to feel sorry for him, standing there red-faced, boner tenting his jeans, as he glares at the spiral staircase to nowhere as if he wishes it actually led to a second floor. They’re in his loft, too. Scott thinks if they were anywhere else, he’d just be melting into the shadows out of pure embarrassment already, but he can’t exactly make a dramatic exit from his own home. 

Or maybe he can. 

“I’m going to go out,” says Derek carefully. 

“Because that’s a totally reasonable response,” says Stiles, huffing. “What is your problem, man? Can you use your words?”

“Dude,” says Scott. “Not helping.” 

“He’s literally running away from us right now,” Stiles says, voice low. “It’s _his apartment_.”

And on some level, Scott thinks he gets what’s happening inside Derek’s head right now. It’s the two of them, Scott and Stiles, sitting on Derek’s bed, inviting him in. They’re a unit. And Derek’s the piece that doesn’t fit, that’s never fit.

“Derek,” says Scott, raising his voice, because Derek’s made it as far as pulling on his sneakers and grabbing his coat and keys, and if Scott waits any longer, he really will leave. “Derek, _stop_.”

Derek doesn’t trust his own judgment, doesn’t trust his own heart, but maybe he’ll trust Scott’s.

He’s not entirely expecting it to work. He didn’t put any alpha into his voice, or _call_ -call him, but Derek stops anyway, his back to them, head down. 

“You don’t want this,” says Derek. “You don’t want me, putting my hands on you like that, you can’t want—when you already have—” Derek cants his head to the side, makes a contained gesture with his free hand. His frustration is palpable.

Scott looks desperately at Stiles, who’s been silently grinding his teeth for the last five minutes, swallowing back whatever replies he’s formulated and then rejected handily. Stiles raises his eyebrows pointedly at Scott, shrugging, and Scott sighs and jerks his head in Derek’s direction. 

“Oh, my god,” says Stiles, throwing up his hands. “Okay, is this about me? Derek, have you looked in a mirror lately? Watching you with Scott, I mean, you are not the only guy in the room with a boner right now. From a purely aesthetic point of view, it’s super hot.”

Across the room, Derek’s shoulders hunch up. Scott digs his elbow into Stiles’s ribs. 

“Wow, okay, okay, let me elaborate,” says Stiles, making a face at Scott. “Objectively hot, yes, but also, you are being incredibly Derek-like in your refusal to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, Scott and I talked about this already.”

“You talked about this,” says Derek flatly. He turns, finally, angling his body back at them, worrying his car keys between his fingers. 

“I like that Scott likes you,” says Stiles. “I like seeing Scott happy, I like, believe it or not, seeing you something other than miserable and aggressively tired. So, like. If you’re going to run away with your tail between your legs, by all means, do it, but don’t run because you think you’re hurting my feelings or affecting the way I feel about Scott. That’s literally impossible, my feelings for Scott were inscribed on a stone tablet before time began. We’re fated, our epic love was written in the stars across like ten galaxies. Do I need to keep going? I can totally keep going—”

“Please don’t,” says Derek. 

“Derek,” says Scott. He wants to touch him, so he gets up and does, stepping right up close to cup Derek’s jaw, spreading his fingers down the length of his throat, thumb tucked right up against his pulse point. He curls his other hand around the nape of his neck, rubbing soothingly until some of the tension leeches out of him again. “We wouldn’t have just—done this, without talking about wanting you here first. We really should have talked to you, too.”

Derek’s jaw works, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He looks at Scott, then over Scott’s shoulder at Stiles. Judging by the way Derek then rolls his eyes, Stiles probably gave him a double thumbs up or something. 

“Sorry,” says Scott softly. “Can I kiss you again? Is that cool?” 

Derek nods fractionally and Scott leans in, ignoring Stiles chanting “kiss kiss kiss” behind them; presses their mouths together for a soft, gentle brush of lips. 

“I give it a solid seven,” says Stiles, when they pull apart. “Not enough tongue.”

“Fated, huh,” mutters Derek. 

Scott grins.

oOo

“I got accepted to MIT,” says Lydia.

They’ve just sat down in Starbucks. Scott nearly spills his hot chocolate. “You—Lydia, _wow_. That’s—of course you did. Congratulations! When did you find out?”

She gives him a smile and wraps red lips around her straw to take a sip. “Last week. I’ve only told Allison and you.”

Scott nods solemnly. “But you’re accepting the offer, right?”

“Of course,” says Lydia primly. 

“That’s great. You’re going to do amazing things.”

“Yes,” she says. “I am. How are your applications going?”

Scott squirms. “Uh.”

Lydia narrows her eyes at him. “Scott.”

“Maybe you can help me with them,” he says, because he wouldn’t mind Lydia’s input on his applications and she won’t trust that he’s actually doing them unless she sees for herself. “Like a second set of eyes.”

He’s been working on his application package for veterinary school, and his personal essay is a mess. There may be an entire paragraph in it about werewolf physiology that he hasn’t deleted yet. He definitely needs help, but it’s been hard to focus lately. Derek keeps emailing him links to things Scott has already seen but is too charmed to complain about; last night Derek apparently spent three hours spiraling deep into the very core of YouTube and had to chart his progress to Scott every step of the way. 

“What about Stiles?” asks Lydia, deliberately casual. Her gaze pins Scott to his seat and sharpens menacingly. 

“Stiles got early admission into Berkeley,” blurts Scott nervously. 

“I know,” she says, relaxing. “He told me.”

“Oh my god,” says Scott, exhaling loudly. “Don’t do that.”

“And Derek?” continues Lydia, tapping her nail against the plastic cup of her drink. 

Scott freezes. “I wasn’t aware Derek had any college plans,” he says slowly. Derek, insofar as he’s shared with Scott in small, fragmented pieces over a long period of time, had been in the middle of college when Laura was murdered. He hadn’t even informed his professors that he was leaving before following her trail to Beacon Hills.

“He was going to take courses online,” says Lydia. “I gave him some...subtle encouragement.”

“How do you know literally everything everyone is doing?” asks Scott, shaking his head, awed. 

“I listen,” says Lydia. “When people talk.”

There’s not a lot Scott can say to that. “What do you think about polyamory,” he asks instead.

Lydia spits mocha frappuccino all over his face.

oOo

“Allison is meeting us at Macy’s in fifteen minutes,” Lydia says, later that afternoon, while they stand around near the Jamba Juice stand.

“Is this an intervention?” asks Scott absently. 

“No,” says Lydia. “She just needs a new bra.”

Scott sticks the string from his hoodie into his mouth and looks around, nodding slowly as he considers this. Maybe there are some new puppies at the pet store. He’d have enough time to check before they have to meet Allison.

“I need some underwear anyway,” says Scott, shrugging. “I’m going to call Stiles, too.”

“Hmm,” murmurs Lydia, frowning at her phone. “Fine.”

Scott only gets as far as taking out his phone and pulling up the lock screen before he notices Derek hovering outside the pet store, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, pacing like he doesn’t want anyone to think he could possibly be there to look at tiny baby animals. 

“Oh no,” whispers Scott when Derek eventually gives up and crouches down to peer into the front display window of the pet store. Even from across the food court, Scott can see the smile spread across Derek’s face. Then he puts his hand up to the glass, presumably to mirror the gesture of a small paw, and Scott thinks he might be suffering a very small heart attack. “Oh _noooooo_.”

“Is he communing with that dog,” asks Lydia, squinting. “They’re definitely having a moment of some kind.”

Scott covers his face with his hands. “He can’t know we saw him. We need to go. Please.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Lydia, and promptly ruins Scott’s life by taking him firmly by the hand and dragging him across the food court to the pet store.

It turns out Derek is communing with a golden retriever puppy, his big hand spread against the glass, dwarfing the animal’s paw. 

“You should get a dog,” says Lydia, and Derek leaps about three feet in the air and ends up with his back pressed to the shop window, struggling to maintain an expression that isn’t wholly guilt-ridden for daring to be charmed by a puppy but also denies he was so occupied by his new dog friend that he didn’t even hear them coming. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Derek frantically. 

“We were at Jamba Juice,” says Lydia, shrugging. “We thought we’d say hi.”

“Hi,” says Derek tightly, and his gaze turns hot and accusing when it settles on Scott. There’s a healthy dose of fear mixed in as well. Fear of Lydia, presumably. Fear of being asked about his plans for continuing his college education. 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Do you want to come to Macy’s?” She looks Derek up and down and he honest-to-god squirms under her heavy scrutiny. “You could probably use a new pair of jeans.”

“Do I have to?” asks Derek. 

“I really wouldn’t say no, dude,” says Scott. 

Derek sticks his chin out. Lydia just smiles.

oOo

Half an hour later, Derek comes out of the changing room in a pair of tight skinny black jeans, his arms wrapped around his chest in a posture that broadcasts insecure defensiveness. He shifts from one socked foot to the other, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the wall beyond Lydia and Allison. It’s 100% clear that he’s working pretty hard to keep from running away.

“Those are good,” offers Allison, breaking the stunned silence. “You have nice calves.” Interaction between Derek and Allison these days is mostly awkward, wholly untrusting, but always impeccably cordial. They’re so forcefully polite when they talk that it often becomes a contest in who can be the most grudgingly respectful of the other. 

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together. “...Thanks.”

“Good fit,” says Lydia speculatively. “Nice lines. Much better than your usual pair.”

“...Are those my socks?” asks Scott, squinting at Derek’s feet. 

Derek steadfastly refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, his ears and neck slowly staining red.

oOo

“So Derek Hale, huh,” says Lydia, nudging Scott with her elbow. They’re back in the food court, waiting for Stiles. Derek didn’t escape Macy’s without a new pair of skinny jeans.

Allison is ordering at Jamba Juice and Derek is doing his absolute damndest to look like he isn’t inching closer and closer to the pet store. 

Scott shrugs. “It’s not really… I mean, we made out a bit. Stiles watched.”

“Stiles watched,” repeats Lydia, nodding slowly. 

They both watch as Allison approaches Derek and inexplicably hands him a smoothie. Derek takes it and narrows his eyes, accepting her challenge. He’s probably going to follow it up with something wildly unsurpassable, like a Coach purse. 

“I gotta admit,” says Lydia. “Until he tried those jeans on, I didn’t fully comprehend why he walks like a bow-legged cowboy.”

Currently in the midst of taking a sip of his drink, Derek abruptly starts to cough, Allison stepping up to pound him hard on the back. 

“Lydia,” chides Scott. 

“What? I have eyes,” she protests. “And now I know he hangs to the right. That is information I now possess, whether I wanted it or not.”

Scott ponders this, chewing on his lower lip. Derek is wiping smoothie off his face with a napkin while Allison doesn’t do a very good job of not laughing at him.

“His butt looks really great in those jeans,” he finally whispers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Lydia. “We’re all so welcome.”

oOo

“Is this really the best possible place for this,” asks Scott, banging his elbow on the door of the Jeep. “ _Ow_ , Stiles, ow, _wait_.”

“Well, where else are we supposed to go?” demands Stiles, digging his bony knee into Scott’s thigh. “Your mom’s home, my dad’s home—”

“Dude, that really hurts!” protests Scott. “Let me just—”

“Don’t pull on that, it comes off,” warns Stiles, just as the handle Scott is leaning on comes off in his hand.

“Oops,” says Scott. “Uh. Okay. Why don’t we just...get out—”

“Are you suggesting sex on the forest floor, Scott?” asks Stiles, leaning back in his seat to narrow his eyes at Scott. His tone is aggressively judgmental and his cheeks are flushed with the apparent exertion of attempting to have successful sex in the cramped interior of the Jeep. “While it has a certain voyeuristic appeal to it, there are also rocks and twigs and predators to consider.”

“Who’s going to see us?” shrugs Scott. “It’s after dark and no one is out here. Also, I’m a werewolf. Technically, _I’m_ the predator.”

Stiles rubs his hand over his face. “I guess we could do it standing up against the hood or something. Let me just see if I can get in your lap again first.”

Scott sighs and gestures vaguely. “Fine, let’s go.”

“Well, don’t sound enthusiastic, or anything,” grumbles Stiles, reaching out to grab the headrest as he hauls himself over the gear shift. He kicks Scott in the shin and they bang foreheads, but Stiles manages to squeeze himself between Scott and the dashboard, straddling Scott’s waist. 

“Okay, so you fit,” acknowledges Scott, resting his hands on Stiles’s waist because there’s nowhere else to put them and also because it’s kind of nice, being squished together like this, Stiles’s heart thumping against his, fast and off-beat. 

“See? I conquer logistical nightmares, Scott,” says Stiles smugly. He squirms, his half-hard dick tucked against Scott’s belly. “I am their master.”

“There’s a problem,” says Scott. 

He feels Stiles’s sigh more than he hears it. “Yeah?”

“We’re both still wearing clothes.”

Stiles’s entire face scrunches up. It’s kind of unbearable, how cute he is. Scott kisses the tip of his nose and turns his face away to laugh, so that he’s not doing it right in Stiles’s face. 

“So we have sex with our clothes on,” mutters Stiles resentfully. “No thanks to you.”

Scott rocks his hips up, catching Stiles’s groan with his lips. He’s got no leverage so it’s difficult to get any friction but the pressure is good, and the heat. 

“O- _oh_ ,” mumbles Stiles against Scott’s mouth, his eyelashes fluttering closed, lips parted. 

“I’m totally helping,” says Scott sweetly, angling his face up to kiss Stiles, nipping at his lower lip to slip his tongue into Stiles’s mouth. 

Stiles grunts noncommittally, sliding his hand under Scott’s jaw to cup the back of his neck. He rises up a little on his knees, grinding his hips down and making them both gasp. There’s a tingle building in the base of Scott’s spine, warm and pleasant and coiled tight.

“What happens if, uh, you know,” pants Scott. 

“What?” mutters Stiles, tugging Scott’s lower lip with his teeth. 

Scott groans. “Stiles, I don’t wanna jizz in my pants. It’s really hard to wash out.”

“So let me get your dick out,” says Stiles, shoving his head in the nonexistent space between their bodies. 

“Out where,” protests Scott, arching his back and squirming. 

“There are tissues in the glove box,” says Stiles. “You can reach.”

“Oh my god,” groans Scott, leaning his head back. “Dude, I feel like we’re trying to unlock an achievement.” With limited visibility, Scott gropes at the dashboard behind Stiles, trying to open the glove compartment. Distantly, beneath the urgent haze of arousal and the thrum of both their heart-beats, loud and insistent, Scott becomes aware of another person nearby. 

“Almost got the zipper,” breathes Stiles. 

“Stiles—”

“Can you, like, budge back maybe an inch? Half an inch.”

“ _Stiles_!”

“What?”

“There’s—”

Someone knocks on the window and Stiles shrieks and cracks his head on the roof of the Jeep.

“—someone outside,” finishes Scott weakly.

Outside the car, Derek lurks near the passenger side window, bent to peer in. He knocks again, and Stiles groans and drops his head on Scott’s shoulder. “It’s Derek. Derek is the forest voyeur,” he mumbles. “Of course.”

Scott rubs his back while Derek makes the universal roll down your window motion, raising his eyebrows expectantly. 

It’s Stiles that lifts his head and reaches over to crank down the ancient Jeep’s window, levering himself away from Scott with a hand braced on the headrest, glowering at Derek. “I thought we were past casual, creeptastic lurking, Derek. I understand that maybe sometimes you get nostalgic and need to go back to your roots, but it’s like ten PM in the middle of the woods, what the hell are you _doing_.”

“I could hear you two from like a mile away,” hisses Derek, and even in the poor light, Scott can see that his cheeks are flushed. The nervous beat of his heart is clearly audible. “The entire preserve reeks of teenage hormones and extremely poor decisions.”

“Oh, he’s _concerned_ ,” says Stiles, rolling his eyes so hard they almost make a noise. “He’s cock-blocking us because he’s worried for our safety. You’re seriously one to talk, buddy.”

“This is like a horror movie waiting to happen,” insists Derek. “Why didn’t you just come—” And then he abruptly shuts his mouth and stops talking.

“He forgot how to use his words again. Right in the middle of a sentence, too,” says Stiles, beginning the awkward process of disentangling himself from Scott’s lap to reclaim the driver’s seat. He only kicks Scott twice before flopping across the gear box. Scott reaches down to do up his fly, trying not to look Derek in the eyes as he does so. 

“I was just driving… walking by—jogging,” says Derek loudly. “I was having an evening jog. And I heard...” He waves a hand irritably through the air like he’s swatting a fly. 

“You hear that, Scotty?” drawls Stiles, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Derek jogs after dark in his leather jacket and skinny jeans, like a complete and utter tool.”

“Guys,” says Scott soothingly, “can we just…”

“Forget it,” snaps Derek, still scowling at Stiles. He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns on his heel, shoulders hitched up around his ears. 

Together, they watch him disappear back into the woods, fading into the encroaching fog like an apparition. 

“Well, that killed my boner,” mutters Stiles, gunning the engine. “Put on your seatbelt, Scott.”

“He was going to ask why we didn’t just go over to his place,” says Scott, fastening his seatbelt. “I mean. I think.” He shrugs. “Maybe.”

Stiles pulls the Jeep out onto the dirt road and stares straight ahead, saying nothing.

oOo

“I’m just saying, maybe we should leave him alone for a bit,” says Stiles, rolling over on Scott’s bed and propping himself up on a pillow.

Scott checks his phone again, but Derek hasn’t texted him back. “Or maybe we should go over there and talk to him.” 

“That’s hilarious,” says Stiles. “What a quaint idea. He literally melted into the shadows rather than stick around the other night, Scott. This is Derek we’re talking about.”

Scott lies down on his back, throwing his legs over Stiles’s calves so that they both fit on the bed, lifting his phone up over his head to refresh his email again. Then he drops it directly onto his face and Stiles barks a loud laugh. 

“I do love seeing those werewolf reflexes in action, Scott.”

“Oh my god,” says Scott. “Skinny jeans.”

“...What?” Stiles blinks at him over the top of the pillow he’s folded up under his chin, forehead furrowed.

“He was actually wearing the pants we picked out for him,” mumbles Scott. “When he found us in the woods.” He turns his face into the mattress, putting in a solid effort to suffocate himself. 

Stiles lets out a deep sigh. “You think we hurt his feelings.”

“We totally hurt his feelings,” mumbles Scott.

“Are you sure he has feelings?” asks Stiles. “Beyond, like, hostility and sarcasm.”

“Stiles,” says Scott, heaving himself up so that he can drape his body heavily over Stiles, wrapping his arms around his waist. “He made us his dead grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies.”

“It’s distressing to acknowledge that. I try not to think about it.”

“Stiles.”

“I know, oh my god,” groans Stiles, pushing his fingers into Scott’s hair and sort of just scratching at his scalp. “I feel bad. I feel _bad_ , okay? But we were in the middle of having sex and he just materialized out of nowhere to interrupt, like, what do I even do with that?”

“We should go over to his place,” says Scott. 

“I still don’t get what he was doing in the woods,” mutters Stiles, huffing.

“He followed me around all day, once,” points out Scott. “Just to make sure I was okay.”

“Okay,” says Stiles. “You win. Let’s go over to his place.”

oOo

Derek Hale eats his feelings.

The only reason Scott and Stiles make this discovery is because Scott bought Derek a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Well, Derek bought them. Scott picked them out. But when they let themselves into the loft with the spare key, Derek is so involved with whatever he’s watching on his laptop that he doesn’t even look up.

Stiles immediately pulls out his phone to take a picture, because it’s probably not a sight either of them will ever witness again: Derek is sitting on the couch with his laptop on the coffee table, wearing fuzzy pajama bottoms and a burgundy sweater that has holes in the sleeves for his thumbs. 

In his lap is a plate.

On that plate is an entire black forest cake. 

Stiles snaps a photo. Derek freezes in stunned horror with his fork halfway to his mouth, his gaze flicking up from his laptop to makes eye contact with Scott, then Stiles, then Scott again.

His entire face contorts into a rictus of despair. 

“I just found my new phone background,” says Stiles cheerfully. 

“That doesn’t look like one of the tops Lydia picked out,” says Scott, feeling oddly helpless.

Very slowly, Derek puts down his fork and pushes his headphones off. “It’s not,” he says defensively. “I bought it.”

In what universe, thinks Scott. In what universe does Derek Hale comfortably wear colours and soft cuddly sweaters with a specially-designed opening in the sleeves for his thumbs? 

What a time to be alive.

“So, hey,” says Scott, when he’s gotten a hold of himself and pushed down all his warm fuzzy Derek-shaped feelings. “We came to apologise.”

“Yeah. Apologies are happening. What are you watching, big guy?” asks Stiles, skirting around the coffee table to sit down on the couch next to Derek. 

“Nothing,” says Derek, his hand darting out to slam the lid of his laptop closed. “Stop that. Why do you have a key to my loft?”

“Because I had one made,” says Stiles easily. “We’re totally bros, right?” He plucks a cherry off the top of Derek’s cake and pops it into his mouth, eyes wide and beguiling. 

“No,” says Derek, and it’s unclear whether he’s refusing their broship or the act of stealing food, but either way, Derek’s not buying a second of Stiles’s act. (To be entirely fair, Scott never buys it either, but he’s a lot more willing to play along; Derek just stubbornly drags the plate out of Stiles’s reach, picks up his fork, and then shovels a forkful of cake into his mouth, eyes fixed on Stiles’s face as he chews deliberately.)

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, I didn’t have it made. It’s the key you gave to Scott when you left town.”

“Then why do you have it?” demands Derek. 

“I didn’t want to lose it,” says Scott, coming around to sit on Derek’s other side. “Stiles is better with keys than me.”

Derek side-eyes them both, grudgingly mistrustful. “Why are you here,” he says flatly. 

“To hang out,” says Stiles. 

“…With me,” says Derek. 

“No, just _around_ you while you wallow in misery. Yes, _with_ _you_ , dork,” says Stiles, already beginning to sound exasperated. Scott catches his eye and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. Stiles lets out a slow breath and tips his chin up at him. “Sorry if we hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” scoffs Derek, putting his headphones back on and pulling his laptop back over to open it. He’s watching something on YouTube, a cooking video where a smiling blonde woman is spooning a heart attack’s worth of frosting onto a cake. 

“He’s so stubborn, wow,” says Stiles. “Two can play at that game.” Then he reaches over and pulls Derek’s headphone jack out of the computer like a smug cat. 

“No,” repeats Derek, snatching it back from Stiles. “Stop it, I said you didn’t hurt my feelings, everything is fine, we’re all fine, now go away.” He plugs his headphones back in. 

“Derek,” says Scott, at the same time that Stiles whines, “Scott!”

Derek’s sullen gaze slides away from his laptop to search Scott’s face and whatever he finds there relaxes the stiff set of his shoulders. “What,” he says.

Scott pulls his knee up under him to lean over, closing the lid of the laptop and then lifting Derek’s headphones off his ears to set them on the coffee table. He removes the plate, putting it on the coffee table, ignoring how Derek’s longing gaze follows the cake. 

“We weren’t sure you’d want us hanging around when we’re just bored and horny,” says Scott. “And Stiles really, really wanted to try fooling around in the Jeep. It was a really bad idea. It only led to bruises and regret.”

“It’s fine,” says Derek, looking away, physically incapable of making eye contact with Scott for longer than ten seconds. “There’s nothing to apologise for. I’m just—I’m not…”

Scott huffs. When he cups Derek’s cheek, makes him face Scott again, Derek doesn’t resist the guidance, but there’s a tense pull to this jaw that broadcasts his discomfort with this entire conversation. He’s so easy to read. 

“Maybe next time we could come fool around here, instead,” suggests Scott. 

“You could,” allows Derek, hitching his shoulder up in a vague shrug. 

“Or,” says Stiles, “the next time you’re creeping in the woods, nebulously concerned with our safety, you could just join us in the Jeep.”

“No. That’s a terrible idea,” says Derek, needlessly contrary. 

“Oh, really?” replies Stiles, raising his eyebrows. “You’re getting judgmental on me? Because I don’t know about your definition of terrible, Derek, but mine is pretty much ‘dude eating an entire cake by himself while watching Sandra Lee videos on YouTube.’ That’s terrible. You should feel terrible.”

“Some part of you is broken,” says Derek. “Something internal, that would ideally gauge boundaries and when they’re being breached.”

“Excellent,” says Stiles tightly. “Then we have that in common, friend. Should I prepare an itemized list? Can I just go ahead and bullet-point your excessive failures for you?”

Banter that started off reasonably lighthearted is very quickly gaining sharp edges. Scott feels like he’s sitting on the sidelines of an increasingly aggressive tennis match and pretty soon someone is going to get brained by the ball. “Cut it out,” he snaps, irritable. “You guys can both be such dicks. I’m not going to sit here and babysit you when you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Whatever,” sighs Stiles, pushing himself up off the couch. “I have to take a leak.”

“Try to get it in the toilet,” mutters Derek. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” says Stiles, disappearing into the bathroom with a slam of the door. 

When Scott was little, and his parents would fight, there were two ways he’d classify the arguments. 

Type A arguments were rare, escalated slowly, and involved big issues like finances, alcohol, and Scott. Type A arguments were scary and involved screaming and threats to leave, to divorce, words flung back and forth like broken glass, and Scott had always hid in his room, buried under blankets and pillows, reading comic books to block out the sound of the fight. When he’d gotten older, he’d climb out the window and ride his bike to Stiles’s house. Type B arguments were smaller, escalating fast and furious, and they were always built around some negligible topic or behaviour that was mostly just a mask for the relentless daily frustrations his parents nursed against one another. 

Type B arguments had once made Scott cry and worry, but as he grew up, he just got increasingly annoyed by their occurrence, by his new role as mediator between his parents. Long hours were spent unraveling problems that would just repeat themselves a week later, a child trapped between his parents.

He’s tired of babysitting people he loves.

“Maybe I should just let you guys figure this out,” says Scott, pushing a hand into his hair and tugging in frustration. He gets off the couch and shakes his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t interfere so much.”

He looks at Derek, who’s sitting on the couch unmoving, his hands curled into fists on his knees. Never has a word more described the current state of Derek’s face than ‘wooden’. 

“Do you like it?” presses Scott. “The way you talk to each other, is it flirting or do you actually hate each other? Because I thought I could tell, but it’s becoming a real concern. I’m concerned, Derek.”

“I’m sorry,” says Derek. He sounds like he’s grinding his teeth. “I don’t know. Please, just, don’t leave.”

Scott sighs heavily and flops back onto the couch. “Go back to YouTube. Let’s just watch that.”

When Stiles comes back out of the bathroom, Scott’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with Derek watching Sandra Lee mix a cocktail out of lemonade and heavy cream. Scott can’t look away. 

For a little while, Stiles stands there looking at them, while Derek and Scott keep watching the monitor. Eventually Stiles just comes around the couch and very carefully settles himself back on Derek’s other side, despite the fact that Scott left room for Stiles to sit next to him. 

“Show Stiles the other one,” says Scott, and Derek obediently clicks back to the video they just finished watching.

They watch videos for an hour, just slumped together on the couch, and Scott and Stiles both end up with their heads on Derek’s shoulders. Derek has relaxed completely, his heartbeat a steady comforting thump near Scott’s ear, and there’s a 75% chance that Stiles is asleep. 

“We should order a pizza,” says Scott. 

“Or we could make our own by assembling entirely pre-prepared ingredients and calling it semi-homemade,” mumbles Derek, sounding close to sleep himself.

“Why are you watching these, anyway?” asks Scott, stifling a yawn.

“Are you kidding,” says Stiles suddenly, apparently more awake than Scott thought. “They’re hilarious. We just watched a woman ice a store-bought cake with store-bought frosting that she dyed puke-green and covered in whipped cream from a can and birthday candles. I can’t wait to see where else this culinary journey takes us next.”

Derek makes a noise in his throat that could be interpreted on several different scales of emotion. Scott chooses to believe that it’s repressed laughter. “Laura used to cook a little like this.”

“Like an assembly line,” offers Stiles, after a few moments of careful silence.

“Yeah,” says Derek. He laughs. “Most of the time we heated up frozen food, but sometimes she’d get stubborn about making something. But she was a really terrible cook. Instead of buying ingredients, she’d buy...parts and slap them all together. She loved that they sold pre-chopped frozen onions at the grocery story. She didn’t even want to chop onions.” 

Derek’s voice has gone rough around the edges and Scott winds their fingers together, giving his hand a squeeze. It’s the most he’s ever heard Derek say about Laura. 

(Laura Hale, who Scott and Stiles found in the woods in pieces. 

It’s jarring, sometimes, remembering the woman murdered by the same man who changed Scott’s life forever. Derek had buried his older sister in the ground near the ruins of his family home; had buried the remains of the only family member he thought he had left under a spiraling rope of wolfsbane. He’d dug the hole himself, wrapped her body, had knelt in the dirt as he did his best to lay her to rest.

Laura Hale, who liked pre-chopped onions.)

“My mom likes those too,” offers Scott, his voice thick. “She says they save time. And she hates the way onions make you cry.”

“Wow,” interjects Stiles, patting Derek bracingly on the knee. “Onions, huh. So, here’s a crazy idea. Before we slip down the drain into maudlin town, why don’t we eat some food? Huh? Isn’t that a fun idea? Then we can watch a nice movie where no one dies at all. Come on, sadsack werewolf boyfriends—let’s go out. Derek’s treat.”

Derek huffs, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re welcome,” he says eventually. 

“Scott wants In-N-Out, right, Scott?” asks Stiles, reaching over Derek to slap Scott on the thigh before bouncing to his feet. “C’mon, let’s do something about that low blood-sugar.”

Derek peels himself off the couch next, hunting for his jacket, while Scott slides off the couch to search under the couch for his sneakers. 

“Werewolf boyfriends,” Scott hears Derek mutter incredulously to himself as he crosses the room and sits by the loft door to tie his shoes. “ _Boyfriends_.”

oOo

The thing about werewolves and teenage boys and teenage werewolves is they eat a lot.

Derek buys them In-N-Out and between the three of them they put away eight burgers, four orders of extra large fries, and a milkshake each. 

Maybe that’s why when they get to the movies, Stiles assumes one large popcorn will be enough for the three of them. To be completely honest, it’s too much of a rookie mistake for Scott to believe Stiles didn’t do it on purpose. Scott can eat a full meal and be hungry again twenty minutes later, and even without the werewolf metabolism, so can Stiles. Scott has very quickly learned that Derek will eat pretty much constantly if there’s food within reach, snacking compulsively regardless of hunger levels. 

When he brought them those chocolate chip cookies, none survived into the following day. Okay, none survived into the following _hour_. 

The theatre is empty. Stiles leads them to the very back row, sits in the middle, and then, because he’s holding the popcorn, Derek and Scott sit either side of them.

“What are we seeing,” asks Derek, burying his hand in the popcorn and extracting a big handful. 

“Dude,” says Stiles. “You’re the one that bought the tickets, you tell us.”

“I just asked for three tickets to whatever was starting next,” says Derek, shrugging one shoulder. 

“And then didn’t read the tickets the guy handed you?”

Derek’s response is only loud, deliberate crunching. 

“Wow,” says Stiles turning to look at Scott. “He’s fucking with us. He’s actually fucking with us. It’s like he thinks he’s people or something.”

Scott chuckles and reaches for some popcorn. When the lights go down and the commercials start, Scott slides down in his seat and pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt. They’re the only ones in the whole theatre. Scott had seen a movie with Allison like this, once, early in their relationship, sitting at the very back and making out for two whole hours. He can’t even remember what they had pretended to see. 

He settles in, half-watching and half- just listening to Stiles and Derek. Derek reaches for the popcorn approximately once every thirty seconds, and eventually Stiles pulls it away from him, hissing, “Dude, you just ate four burgers.”

“So?” retorts Derek sullenly. “Are you the popcorn gatekeeper? Are you policing my diet now?”

“Maybe I’m just concerned about your cholesterol,” mutters Stiles. “Maybe I worry about your arteries and your sodium intake.”

“I’m a werewolf,” says Derek. “Worry about your own arteries. That beef jerky will catch up with you eventually.”

“He’s right,” adds Scott, leaning forward and turning toward Stiles to raise his eyebrows earnestly at him. “That stuff is terrible for you, dude. I’ve told you before.”

“Oh man, you two did _not_ just gang up on me. What is this, now?” demands Stiles, gripping the popcorn tightly to his chest like he’s protecting it from them. “An intervention? Are you going to check my blood pressure? The movie is starting, both of you clowns shut up.”

They sit in silence for ten minutes. Scott still doesn’t know what they’re watching. Beside him, Stiles is rustling the popcorn bag and crunching intermittently. When Derek reaches for it, Stiles holds it away from him and whispers, “You’re on popcorn time-out. Scott, make him stop eating all the popcorn.”

Scott feels like a kindergarten teacher. “Why don’t I just go buy more popcorn,” he suggests, trying to be tactful. He doesn’t think it’s a bad idea at all, so he’s pretty confused when Stiles levels an utterly betrayed expression at him. It’s official; Scott has no idea what’s going on anymore. Ever. There is no rhyme or reason to his life. 

“Dude,” says Stiles. 

“What?” says Scott. “Unless you have something useful to contribute maybe you should just shut up.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open and then shuts with a sharp click of his jaw. On the other side of Stiles, Derek is stifling a laugh with his fist. 

“Useful suggestions,” says Stiles, his eyes wide and guileless. “That has some pretty damning implications, Scotty. I’m feeling very vulnerable right now. I suggest Derek leave some for the rest of us. I suggest he go take a jog around the block and come back when he’s ready to admit he’s a fucking popcorn hog. You know what? I suggest—”

Derek is practically on the floor, huddled up with his head between his knees as he tries to hide his very apparent laughter, and then Stiles just licks his entire hand and buries it in the popcorn. 

“Oh my god,” groans Scott, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my god, that is so gross. Stiles, you need a timeout.”

“Do you want some now?” demands Stiles, grabbing a handful of popcorn and offering it to Derek, who just wheezes into his knees and shakes his head helplessly. Wearing an expression of complete and utter triumph, Stiles shoves the popcorn into his own mouth and chews furiously. 

“Please,” hisses Scott, slunk down in his seat so far he’s almost horizontal. “Please stop. I’m going to switch seats. I’m disowning you. Do I need to split you two up? Stiles, just switch seats with me.”

“No,” says Stiles, and now he’s throwing popcorn at Derek’s bent head kernel by kernel. “I’ve got prime movie-viewing seating, here. I like being in the middle.”

All in all, Scott’s nowhere near the realm of surprised when an usher appears in the aisle and shines her flashlight on them, but they still all freeze like bugs under a microscope, Derek guiltily lifting his head, his face bright red. 

“I’m gonna have to ask you dudes to leave,” she says flatly, pegging them with a withering glare. She aims her flashlight directly into Stiles’s eyes. 

“There isn’t even anybody else here,” Stiles protests, jumping to his feet and gesturing to the totally empty theatre. “We’re disturbing literally no one.”

“You’re disturbing _me_ ,” she says, popping her gum and angling a brow at Stiles. “And you’re making enough noise out in the hallway that I can get away with kicking you out.” She smiles sweetly. “Thanks for visiting us here at Beacon Hills Multiplex!”

“I’m filing a complaint!” yells Stiles, shaking his fist as Scott hustles him out of the theatre. “I’m gonna speak to a manager!”

“Oh my god, please stop, please just shut up,” hisses Scott, waving a half-hearted good-bye at the gathered staff. His smile feels frozen onto his face. “We’re really sorry! PLEASE DON’T CALL THE COPS. SORRY.”

“The cops are my DAD, by the way!” bellows Stiles. “SUCK ON THAT.”

“Pretty sure your dad would happily arrest you himself if he was forced to witness this,” mutters Derek under his breath, gripping Stiles by the arm of his jacket and helping Scott drag him out the double doors. 

“We can never go back there,” says Scott seriously, collapsing against the side of Stiles’s Jeep in the parking lot, a hand pressed over his face. “We can never, ever go back to see a movie again. What is wrong with you?”

Stiles looks weirdly rattled, his arms crossed tight over his chest, a pinched expression on his face. His cheeks are rashed red and he smells distressed, his heartbeat a rapid _thud-thud-thud_ in Scott’s ears. “Nothing, dude. Come on. Like we haven’t gotten kicked out of like half of Beacon Hills before.”

He’s right. Stiles is totally right and Scott thinks if it was a year ago, or if it was just the two of them, or if it was pre-bite and they were kind of high or a little drunk, then Scott would’ve just found it hilarious. He would’ve been egging Stiles on. 

But now Derek is standing just a little ways off from them, his hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, radiating tension so strongly Scott can feel it rippling from his body like physical waves. 

They were trying to relax. It was Stiles’s idea, to hang out.

“I should go,” says Derek.

“Sure thing, Commander Shepard,” says Stiles, rolling his eyes.

Derek gives him a blank look. He turns the blank look on Scott and it becomes vaguely questioning by virtue of his delicately quirked eyebrows.

Scott just shakes his head. “It’s a video game. You don’t have to go, Derek.”

“Yeah, Derek,” mimics Stiles. He rubs a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” says Derek tightly. “I thought I knew, but—” He’s not looking at either of them so it’s hard to tell who it’s directed at. Maybe both of them.

“I’m sorry,” says Stiles suddenly, exhaling noisily. His face is still red. “I’m sorry. I’ve been—I was acting like a dick. I don’t know. There’s literally nothing I can say. At first I was just messing around, and then...” He shrugs again, at a loss.

Scott relaxes marginally, relieved by the admission. He’s not used to being clueless about what’s going through Stiles’s head. It really, really sucks. 

“Look, I gotta be home by eleven,” says Stiles, checking the time on his phone. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. Scott scoots up next to him, hip to hip, and Stiles looks at him sidelong, before looking over at Derek. “Maybe you guys can just come over for a bit.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” says Derek, frowning.

“Your eyebrows actually make a noise when you make that face, you know,” says Scott tiredly. “It’s super weird. Come on. Come with us.”

Derek isn’t really all that hard to convince, anymore. Scott just has to remember that phrasing a question like an order instead of a request is the most effective way to gain his active participation; he’s careful not to take advantage of this awareness.

Derek ends up sitting in the back of the Jeep as Stiles pulls out of the theatre parking lot, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, eyes reflecting the streetlights in the rearview mirror.

oOo

“I bet you’re not used to going in the front door,” says Stiles to Derek, as he lets them into his house.

“That was one time,” grits out Derek, trailing in behind them reluctantly, like he was just passing by and accidentally got caught in their orbit. He looks around surreptitiously. “Is your dad home?”

“Not yet,” says Stiles. “Want a drink?”

He gets them sodas and they all go upstairs to Stiles’s room, where Stiles automatically sits at his desk and Scott takes the bed and Derek hovers awkwardly by the doorway like he’s planning his escape route. 

“You can sit down, you know,” says Stiles, looking over at him. 

“I’m fine,” says Derek tersely. 

“Well, I’m not,” says Stiles. “You’re making me nervous.”

There’s, like, plenty of room on the bed. Scott assumes that Derek is going to give in and sit on the bed with him, but apparently Stiles doesn’t have the same power that Scott has, or maybe he didn’t phrase his request directly enough, because instead of taking the obvious exit, Derek just takes two steps into Stiles’s bedroom and sits right down on the floor. 

“Right,” says Stiles, staring at him. “This isn’t awkward at all.”

“Stiles,” says Scott. “Can you just—”

“What?” asks Stiles. “I’m just being honest! I don’t know about you guys, but I’m feeling very awkward right now. Can we take a quick poll? Scotty? Derek?”

“Like, I don’t know, 100 awkward,” says Derek dryly, his voice tense. “In whatever unit of measurement works for you. Why don’t I just go home?”

“That is the opposite of helpful, Derek,” says Stiles.

“I don’t get why.” Derek is cross-legged on the floor with his hands in his lap and he looks unhappy and small. It’s upsetting.

Scott sits up and pulls one of Stiles’s pillows into his lap, wrapping his arms around it and burying his nose in it to breathe in deeply. He kind of wants to just sink into the mattress and become one with it. Wrap himself in the comforting, familiar scent and just melt away. “Stiles is trying to say something important.”

“He’s never had problems saying stuff before, important or otherwise,” mutters Derek, but they both ignore him.

“I’m really bad at this,” mutters Stiles eventually, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“You don’t have to humour me,” says Derek stiffly. “I can take a hint.”

“Oh, my god, no you can’t. You have literally never been able to take a hint but that’s not the point. You just don’t get it,” snaps Stiles. “You’re into Scott, not me. I’m the one being humoured, here. I’m trying, okay? You could even say this whole thing was my idea, and I know I said I was, like, objectively okay with it, I am, and it’s, god, I don’t know. I don’t regret it, because you should get the chance to… anyway, I’m the weak link, here. It’s not actually about you at all. You’re fine.”

Derek lifts his head, his mouth hanging open, and he makes eye contact with Stiles, staring at him incredulously for a good ten seconds before he turns away and frowns at the wall instead. “That’s stupid.”

“Your face is stupid,” snaps Stiles. “Look, I’m not jealous!”

Scott peers at him over the top of the pillow but Stiles isn’t lying; he’s not jealous, or he believes he isn’t, at least. With Stiles, it’s hard to tell, sometimes.

“Like, I am cool with it, if that’s what you guys want,” continues Stiles, getting up out of his chair to pace. “I said I was cool with it, and I am. I’m even cool with it happening in front of me, or away from me, or whatever, but I think it only works a certain way. It might be better if I stop being here when you guys are...bonding. Derek doesn’t even like me.”

“I like you,” protests Derek and the look on his face is almost offended. “You don’t like me. And I’m not the one that had a tantrum over a bag of popcorn.”

“Okay, for the record, you eat way more than your fair share, big guy!” yells Stiles. 

“Didn’t I say, like, weeks ago, that this was just sexual tension?” demands Scott loudly. “You’re both such assholes sometimes. Stiles, can you please just tell me what you want? I’m not—I would never want to do anything to hurt you.” 

Scott can’t believe Stiles is trying to brush this off like it’s nothing. 

“I want to watch you guys fuck,” says Stiles abruptly, firing it at them like a missile. “I like how that sounds, it is truly excellent jerk-off fodder in my head, believe me, because aesthetics, man, I believe we already went over my feelings about the appealing aesthetics. I am totally into that. Scott, you know how I feel about you, dude. And Derek, I’m not sorry, man, you are beautiful. I enjoy looking at you when you’re not making a murderface at me.”

Stiles rubs both hands over his face and into his hair. He’s breathing fast, panicked, like he’s trying to pace his flow of words. “So, like, it’s hard. I don’t know what I want. I’m still deciding. But I’m not lying when I say I’m not jealous. I just don’t know how—” he makes a sharp gesture. “—involved I want to be yet. It’s been weird. I feel like a third wheel, right now, creeping on your dates. Like I’m a voyeur.”

“It’s okay if that’s all you want,” says Scott gently. “You’re not a voyeur if we know you’re here, Stiles.”

“It’s hard to forget,” says Derek, but he’s not being sarcastic. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, and he’s looking at Stiles with what would on anyone else be an earnest expression but it’s Derek and Scott’s never really seen him wear ‘earnest’ with Stiles. 

“Wow, dude. I’m flattered,” snorts Stiles. “Really.”

Scott sits up, scooting to the edge of the bed and dropping his feet to the floor. “Stiles. Please come here?” 

When he spreads his legs, Stiles steps into the cradle of his thighs and Scott slides his hands up Stiles’s hips to rest at his waist, knees cinching in to hold Stiles in place. “I don’t want to keep doing anything without you,” mumbles Scott, pressing his face against Stiles’s stomach and snuffling at him. 

Stiles smells like stale popcorn and artificial butter and fabric softener; Scott takes deep breaths of his scent while Stiles curls his fingers into Scott’s hair. “Okay, dude. Okay.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” demands Stiles after a few moments of indulgent nuzzling. 

Scott pulls his face back to look at Derek, already half-way out the door. He freezes guiltily. “Dude,” says Scott. “What is your damage.”

“Now _I_ feel like a voyeur,” says Derek, the tips of his ears pink. “I can go. I should go. Nobody ever listens to me.”

“For very good reason, your ideas are terrible,” says Stiles, rolling his eyes. He’s still threading his fingers through Scott’s hair and Scott’s eyes droop closed as Stiles scritches the pads of his fingers against his scalp. 

“But my face is okay,” retorts Derek. There’s something brittle about his tone that Scott really doesn’t like. He squeezes Stiles’s hip warningly and Scott feels it when he softens, something loosening from the very core of him. 

“Dude,” says Stiles, his voice as gentle as it gets. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything,” spits Derek. 

“You know me,” says Stiles firmly. “Okay, technically it is what I meant—you have got one hot bod, Derek, and your face is more than okay. You could probably cut diamonds with your cheekbones. You are aggressively hot. Like, have you ever considered modeling? Because you should. It could be a legitimate business opportunity—”

“Stiles,” interjects Scott, going very still. Derek has gone so tense he’s practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself in, the air like molasses around them. 

“Right,” says Stiles, shaking his head. “God. Derek. I’m attracted to you. But I’m not just trying to—it’s not just physical. It’s not. I told you. Do you trust me?”

“Stiles,” protests Derek, sounding wounded. “What does that have to do—”

“It has everything to do with this,” says Stiles, his spine like steel against Scott’s hands. “Do you fucking trust me or not, you ridiculous piece of shit?”

“Yes,” confesses Derek miserably. 

Giving Scott a squeeze, Stiles untangles their bodies and steps right into Derek’s personal space. Derek visibly resists the urge to step back, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He’s of an even height with Stiles, but he looks smaller with his shoulders all hunched up, body curled inward. 

Scott remembers hugging Derek that night a few weeks ago, the way he’d fit neatly into Scott’s arms, his grip warm and a little desperate. 

Desperate, and wanting.

When Stiles wraps his arms around him, Derek buries his face against Stiles’s neck, melting into the hug. His hands come up, fingertips pressed into the broad plane of Stiles’s back and Derek’s shudder rips through both of them.

“Whoa, buddy,” says Stiles, almost too soft for Scott to hear, his lips by Derek’s ear. “Okay.”

They pull apart and Derek’s face is red and blotchy and reluctant but there’s relief written into the line of his shoulders. “I should actually go now.”

He’s gone before either of them can protest, mostly soundless on the stairs, but as he gets to the kitchen Scott hears the front door open.

“Your dad is home,” he says to Stiles, amused.

Literal seconds later, Derek is back upstairs, panic written into the tense line of his mouth. “I’m going out the window, _move_.”

“You’re such a big baby,” says Stiles, rolling his eyes. “He’s not going to arrest you. We’re way, way past that period of our lives. You’re going out the front door, like a human.”

“I’m not a human,” says Derek, clinging to his supernatural breeding like a lifeline. “Werewolves prefer windows.”

“I think you’re confusing werewolves with Spiderman,” offers Scott. “Do you want me to walk you to the door, Derek?”

“Yes,” says Derek sullenly.

oOo

“Oh,” says the sheriff, poking his head out of the kitchen when they all reach the bottom of the stairs, Derek hovering anxiously behind them. “You’ve got company. Hey, Scott.” His gaze falls on Derek and then lingers on him a moment, before he nods and adds, “Hale. Stiles, is there any lasagna left?”

“Freezer, the Tupperware with the blue lid,” says Stiles. “You gotta defrost it.”

“Thanks, kid,” says the sheriff, disappearing back into the kitchen. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Eat some salad!” yells Stiles after him. He turns and raises his eyebrows, staring Derek down. “That was terrifying, huh, the way he threatened to take you down to the station and lock you up for literally no reason at all. Wow, what a dick.”

“I love that you’re scared of our parents,” Scott says to Derek, patting him on the back as they gather by the door. “It’s charming.”

Derek huffs. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” protests Scott, pretending to clutch his pearls. “So, we should hang out this weekend. All three of us.”

“Okay,” says Derek, swallowing. He grips the door handle. “Yeah. You can come over.” He looks from Scott to Stiles and back again.

“Yeah,” agrees Stiles. “Saturday.”

“I’ll make dinner,” adds Derek, and then he’s gone.

“What a dramatic asshole,” says Stiles, staring out into the street. “Who does that? Who leaves with theatrical speed after a line like, ‘I’ll make dinner’?”

“I don’t think he knows how to leave a room like a normal person anymore,” says Scott, sliding his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I’m gonna head home, too.” He leans in to kiss Stiles goodnight. 

“Hey,” says Stiles, reaching out to curl long fingers around Scott’s upper arm, stopping him for pulling away fully. “Are we okay?”

“We are totally okay,” says Scott, closing his eyes and touching foreheads with Stiles. 

“Okay.” Stiles breathes out slowly. He’s trembling, just a little, nervous energy or tension thrumming through his body like a current, so Scott instinctively grips the back of his neck, rubs his thumb against the sensitive skin of his nape. “I’m not a puppy, Scott,” he huffs. 

“I know,” says Scott, and then Stiles tilts his head back and catches Scott’s lips with his, kissing him at his leisure. Underneath the sickly sweet flavour of mountain dew, Stiles tastes like butter and the burnt undercurrent of popcorn kernels from the bottom of the bag, his mouth hot and slick and salty. 

“Go home, Scott,” says the sheriff, appearing in the foyer. He’s wearing an indulgent smile, arms crossed as he leans against the wall.

Stiles jerks back a bit, his face heating up, and Scott blinks dazedly, still half-nuzzling Stiles’s face. 

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles. “Good night, sir.”

“Night, Scotty,” says Stiles. 

Scott grins crookedly at him and pushes his hands back into his pockets. 

He runs all the way home, his body loose and warm.

oOo

On Friday, Scott’s mom picks him up after school and they go to the grocery store to pick up elbow macaroni and a massive brick of cheese so that Scott can make dinner. He also slips Lucky Charms into the cart and slides them under the pasta and his mom pretends not to notice and it’s when he’s staring innocently down the cereal aisle that he spots Derek.

“We need to eat something green with it,” says his mom, making a face at their cart. “It can’t just be cheese and pasta.”

“Why not?” asks Scott, only half-listening; he’s busy spying on Derek, who’s holding a box of Cheerios and intently reading the nutritional facts printed on the side.

He’s also wearing sweatpants that are a little too loose around his hips and a white tank top and his hair is plastered down damp and flat against his head; Scott can smell his sweat from twenty feet away. Judging by the earbuds and the iPod and running shoes on his feet, he’s been out jogging or he’s just come from the gym. 

Scott just watches him, unable to look away from the way his shirt clings to his narrow waist and the gleam of sweat still clinging to his biceps, and then Derek turns to dump the cereal box into his cart and Scott’s treated to a spectacular view of his ass. 

“Is that Derek Hale?” asks his mom curiously. “...I have those same sweatpants.”

“Oh my god,” croaks Scott, his mouth going dry. “ _Mom_.”

Yep. That’s Derek Hale, with J U I C Y printed right across the perfect swell of his ass. That’s Derek Hale, rudely happening to him right in the middle of the cereal aisle, in his dumb sweatpants with his dumb scrunched up face.

That’s Derek Hale, ruining Scott’s life. 

“We should have him over for dinner sometime,” says his mom. 

Later, in the car, Scott texts Stiles about Derek’s perfect butt and Stiles is so offended that Scott didn’t take a picture for him that he stops talking to him for twenty whole minutes.

Scott’s not entirely sure where to even beginning coping with all of this. 

Jerking off seems like a good start. 

(He tells Stiles about that, too, when Stiles deigns to message him back.)

oOo

On Saturday night, Derek answers the door in an apron.

“The pasta is boiling over,” he says, a wooden spoon clutched in his hand. “Close the door behind you.”

“Looking fly, Derek,” calls Stiles, pulling the door shut as Derek sprints back to the kitchen.

“Shut up, Stiles,” retorts Derek.

“I brought a pie,” says Scott, following Derek into the kitchen (which, considering the obvious lack of walls, is just the area of Derek’s loft loosely-defined by the presence of a big stainless steel fridge, a matching Electrolux stove, the sink, and some counter space). “It’s blueberry. Where do you want it?”

“You can put it on the counter,” says Derek, frowning as he stirs the pot of pasta. The expression on his face is adorably focused. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“What are you making?” asks Scott.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” says Derek, turning the heat down on the stove. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure.”

“That sounds great,” replies Scott, grinning.

“If you were wondering, I didn’t bring anything but my sparkling personality,” offers Stiles cheerfully, pulling out a chair from the dining room table Derek rescued from the side of the road and settling himself in it backwards. “Because I am just a goddamn delight.”

“If that’s the case then I guess it’s a good thing you’re so cute,” says Derek dryly.

“Did you just—” Stiles splutters at Derek, his cheeks flushing red. “Okay, no, you did _not_ just—I mean— _dude_.”

“Here,” says Derek, scooping a strand of spaghetti out of the pot and dangling it at Stiles. “Tell me if it’s done.”

“ _I’m_ done,” mutters Stiles, plucking up the lone spaghetti and chewing thoughtfully, “but the pasta needs like two more minutes.”

oOo

“It’s only fair,” says Scott solemnly, when Stiles complains about getting stuck with clean-up duty after they finish dinner. “You didn’t bring anything.”

“What part of ‘sparkling personality’ don’t you assholes understand?” demands Stiles, dumping a stack of dishes into the sink and turning on the tap. “I’m the entertainment! How dare you suggest I came empty-handed!”

“The dish soap is in the cabinet,” says Derek, from his spot stretched out on the couch. He’s taking up most of it, laid out with his elbow propped on the arm of the couch, one leg on the cushions and the other dangling off the edge. His feet are bare. 

“This place looks really good now, you know,” says Scott, leaving Stiles in the kitchen to join Derek. There’s another chair offset from the couch but Scott just picks up Derek’s legs and scoots under his legs to sit with him, dropping his feet in his lap. 

Derek blinks lazily at him and shifts to get more comfortable, legs draped over Scott’s thighs. “Thanks.” 

“Getting real furniture has definitely made it feel less like an abandoned warehouse and more like an actual apartment,” adds Scott earnestly. 

“...Thanks,” huffs Derek. “At least it’s not a derelict train, right? It’s not a hard act to follow.”

“You’re moving up in the world,” teases Scott. “Running water and appliances, wow.”

He’s not sure how much Derek is even listening. Derek’s hot gaze is fixed hungrily on Scott and he follows up every brief moment of eye contact with indulgent scrutiny of his mouth, more interested in the way Scott shapes his words than the content of what he’s saying. 

“Is there spaghetti sauce on my face or something?” asks Scott, grinning crookedly. He reaches up, ready to wipe at his chin, but Derek sits up first, fingers curling around Scott’s wrist. 

“Maybe,” he says, his knee tucking against Scott’s hip. “Maybe not.”

“Schrodinger’s spaghetti sauce.” Scott laughs. “Is it there or not?”

“Let me check?” asks Derek. 

He waits for Scott to nod before he leans in and brushes their lips together, tentative. Scott tilts his head, angles his mouth into the curve of Derek’s bottom lip; when their lips actually meet, Scott imagines a little spark, like an electric shock, pooling at the base of his spine. Derek’s eyes are closed, his lips parted, and when he darts his tongue out to wet them, Scott covers his mouth with his own and swallows Derek’s relieved sigh. 

There are so many ways Derek is different from Stiles, and he doesn’t mean to compare them, but he’s definitely forming something like a catalogue in his head each time they’re intimate like this. 

Most of it is superficial, like how Stiles is clean-shaven while Derek has a beard, but the rest is wrapped up in scent. Scott barely remembers what it’s like to scent the world as a human. Everything has a smell, or an absence of one, and scents carry colours and feelings with them, bursting like kaleidoscopes in Scott’s brain, building branching images, fitting all the pieces of a storied life together for him. 

Scott knows Stiles’s scent like it’s a part of his own soul, has the bright warmth of him tattooed under his skin, categorized by the constant components (the underlying copper bloom of blood that everyone smells like, the salty tang of skin and sweat, and the clinging, chemical smells of cologne, shampoo, detergent) and the parts that are uniquely Stiles (fresh earth and mint, like a balm). 

Derek’s scent has the electric burn of supernatural blood, familiar in a visceral way, because Scott’s tracked Derek before through blood trails and echoes of memories, but Scott’s not as experienced with Derek’s scent as he is with Stiles’s. He doesn’t know how to describe the notes that identify him as _Derek_ yet, can’t put words to the shapes and colours that flare in his brain.

“Scott,” mumbles Derek, his voice a little ragged around the edges, and Scott realises he’s dragging his nose over the rough cut of Derek’s jaw, tracing the path with his mouth, over and over again, breathing him in and holding him there in his chest. 

“Yeah.” Scott hums, slides his hand up Derek’s back, counting the knobs of his spine until he’s got his hand wrapped around the back of Derek’s neck. “You okay?”

Derek’s eyelashes flutter, a dark curve against his cheek, and he shivers, like he’s not expecting to be asked.

“I’m good,” he says. 

For a moment, they sit still and quiet, forehead to forehead. Scott wants to bury himself under the warm glow of leather and spice. 

“You smell really good,” groans Scott. He can’t believe he never noticed it before. 

“So do you,” says Derek gruffly. 

In the kitchen, Stiles turns off the tap and Scott listens to his footsteps approach them as he rubs his thumb against Derek’s jaw. When he turns his head, temple resting against Derek’s forehead, and opens his eyes, Stiles has settled in the armchair opposite them, eyes wide and a little glassy. 

The sharp tang of his arousal filters into Scott’s senses and he takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs. 

“I don’t have a werewolf nose,” protests Stiles, his gaze fixed intently on Scott’s face before it slides to Derek, slumped boneless next to him. “But I’m going to assume it just smells like pheromones in here, or something. Hey, whatever gets you going. Don’t stop on my account.”

“You like to watch,” drawls Derek. He sounds punch-drunk, his eyelids heavy and his pupils blown wide as he blinks slowly at Stiles. 

“I can see your boner through your jeans, dude,” says Stiles. “Of course I like to watch.”

There are three people in the room, three heartbeats, three ragged sets of breathing. Stiles is just sitting there _watching_ them, slunk down in the chair, his shirt riding up; Scott can see his treasure trail. It’s the same pose Scott’s seen him adopt hundreds of times while they’ve watched porn together, his limbs loose and lazy, fingers teasing above the waistband of his pants. 

Only now he’s watching _them_ , hot gaze aimed at Scott as he cups Derek’s jaw and parts his lips with his tongue.

Derek opens to him so easily.

He doesn’t kiss with urgency, like Stiles does. When Scott pulls back for a moment to breathe, their noses brushing, Derek stays still and cautious, his eyes half-closed and his mouth slick and red, waiting patiently. 

“Fuck, Derek,” mumbles Stiles. He’s rubbing his dick through his jeans, grinding down with the heel of his palm. “You already look wrecked and you’re both still fully dressed. If that’s what your mouth looks like just after making out, I can’t wait to see what happens when you suck someone’s cock.”

Derek sucks in a sharp breath. Scott sees his pupils dilate, the pale green of his irises swallowed up by arousal. 

“He’s got a dirty mouth,” murmurs Scott. “If you don’t like it, we can—”

“I like it,” says Derek roughly. 

“You guys really need to stop getting distracted and just take your shirts off already,” groans Stiles in frustration. 

“You could participate,” suggests Derek, his face flushed and his skin hot under Scott’s hand. 

“I am participating,” says Stiles. “I am _totally_ participating. And my contribution to this personal porno is that the world will be a much, _much_ better place if you take off Scott’s shirt for him.”

It’s such a _Stiles_ thing to say. Scott grins, the pit of his stomach tightening with a pleasant coil of arousal. 

The ripple of Derek’s hesitation is almost a physical thing. It’s mostly in his hands and face, the tremor in his fingers, the way his expression freezes momentarily. 

“It _is_ pretty warm in here, dude,” offers Scott, bracing a hand on the broad curve of Derek’s chest, fingers splayed over his ribs. “Help me out.”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, voice firm. “Help him out, Derek.”

It’s enough to cement Derek’s resolve. His face smoothes out and his hands don’t shake as he grips Scott’s shirt by the hem and strips him out of it, ruffling Scott’s hair. He seems immediately flustered by the partial nudity, moving his hands to rest on Scott’s still-clothed hips. 

In the armchair, Stiles make a tiny frustrated sound. “Touch him, Derek. You should touch him. He’s not—he likes it. Right, Scotty?”

“Right,” says Scott, and he looks Derek right in the eye as he says it, catches his chin and holds him briefly in place.

The bob of Derek’s throat as he swallows catches Scott’s attention. 

Then Derek’s fingertips trail down Scott’s chest until his hand is spread over his sternum, blanketing the beat of his heart. 

“Okay,” says Stiles, his voice a little muffled. “Okay. God.” He’s slumped down in the chair, legs spread, one hand half-covering his face. His other hand is pushed down inside his jeans now, fingers coated in precome, because Scott can smell it, even from here, even with Derek pressed hot and solid and sweat-damp next to him, he can smell how turned on Stiles is. 

He’s not even jerking himself off, yet. Scott can’t think of a moment he’s ever admired Stiles’s willpower but he’s exercising some now, just squeezing his dick as he peers at them through one dark, glassy eye, his cheeks flushed and his lower lip bitten a slick cherry red.

“You like that, Scott?” The more this builds, the rougher Stiles’s voice gets. “You like his hands on you like that? He gets really into it when I touch him like that, too, Derek. That’s good. You’re doing good.”

Derek makes a little noise, then, a punched-out groan from deep in his chest. 

Breathing raggedly, he draws a knee up onto the couch, leaning into Scott when he strokes a big hand up his naked back and dips his head in for a kiss. 

“Is it—am I,” Derek huffs, closing his eyes. 

Scott pushes his fingers through Derek’s thick hair, trying to ground him. “I need an action verb, dude,” he whispers, smiling gently as a shudder runs through Derek’s spine. “Or maybe an adjective.”

“No,” grunts Derek. “That’s not... Am I okay? Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” says Scott. “It really is way more than okay.”

“Meanwhile, I’m going to die in this chair,” says Stiles, arching his hips a little to wriggle his jeans down his hips. “I don’t want to jerk off until you get to the, you know. Main event. Not that the foreplay isn’t nice.”

“Can you just,” mutters Derek sourly. He glances at Stiles sidelong, his jaw tense. Whatever he’s going to say just turns into an impatient growl. Derek doesn’t seem to be a fan of finishing sentences right now. 

Somehow, Stiles knows what he wants. They lock eyes, and Stiles drops the hand that’s buried in his hair, sitting up a little; his expression shifts a few degrees down the spectrum from impatient to calculating. It sends a frisson of lust straight down Scott’s spine when Stiles transfers his hot gaze from Derek to Scott, pinning him there. 

“He likes it when you bite,” says Stiles hoarsely. “That spot right under his jaw.”

All of a sudden, Derek’s all over him, his body a solid mass of heat and muscle pressing Scott against the back of the couch, hands spread over Scott’s chest and shoulder as Derek noses up the line of his throat, pausing to drag his teeth over Scott’s clavicle. 

Scott laughs, because it tickles a bit, but then Derek’s teeth nip the soft underside of his jaw and he shudders bodily, digging his fingers into Derek’s hips. 

“See?” says Stiles. “I told you he likes it. Everybody should always listen to me.”

“If we did that, I’d probably be dead,” murmurs Derek. 

“When did you get so mouthy?” demands Stiles, sullen. “I’m not sure I like it.”

“Well, I do. I also like it when his mouth is _on me_ if we’re being totally honest here,” says Scott, exasperated. 

It’s getting hard to concentrate on anything that isn’t the hard press of Derek against him, the restless flex of his muscles, the outline of his hard-on in his tight jeans. It’s equally difficult to ignore his own erection and the smell of Stiles’s wet dick or the agitated reflexive motion of his thumb sweeping the head.

Flustered, Scott puts his hand in Derek’s hair, stroking through and then tugging a little, demanding his attention.

Derek turns back to him, his face red. Then he steals another glance at Stiles. 

“Why don’t you tell Derek something else I like,” murmurs Scott. 

“Oh, so _now_ you want my input,” says Stiles, but it’s half-hearted and lacking heat. Stiles is too turned on right now to legitimately be interested in picking a fight for the sake of it; his lower lip is caught between his teeth as he worries it. 

Scott rolls his eyes. Derek is technically caging him in against the couch but his body language is loose and pliant. It’s easy to slip his hands under the hem of Derek’s shirt and cradle his hips, spreading his fingers wide. Getting Derek’s shirt off as he strokes his hands up his sides is almost just a side effect of being able to touch as much skin as possible and Derek arches his back and lifts his arms, Scott’s hands cradling Derek’s ribs, thumbs tucked against the sensitive flesh under his arms. 

In the chair, Stiles has gone silent. 

Scott finishes tugging Derek’s shirt up over his head, retracing the path his hands took to follow the line of his shoulders, admiring the nervous ripple of muscle as Derek lowers his arms and blinks dazedly at Scott, his eyes pale and his mouth soft and slack. 

Derek’s pretty much beautiful. Scott’s sure he’s always been aware of it, like, in an objective way. The first time he saw him, standing in the woods with a scowl souring his face, Scott catalogued Derek’s high cheekbones and the fine line of his nose like he catalogued any obvious visual detail he observed happening around him. Derek was just really extraordinarily good-looking. His hotness was not in any way subjective. It was a simple fact of life.

Unfortunately, he was also a _raging asshole_ for a long, long time, and Scott ended up with a lot of Derek-related opinions that just had to slot into a higher priority in his brain. Derek made a lot of misguided terrible decisions and happened to look attractive while making them. Scott felt distantly sorry for him but mostly he was frustrated by Derek’s complete inability to deliver relevant and timely facts when answering super important life or death questions.

Derek became a lot more attractive in a way that had nothing to do with his perfect face when he started to try, and trust, and grow, and learn. 

He’s always been hot, but Scott actually _likes_ him, now. Scott cares about the tremor in Derek’s muscles and the vulnerable span of his ribs and the dark hair curling down from his belly button across the flat plane of his abdomen.

“Scotty, do you think Derek has sensitive nipples or what?” Stiles sounds rough around the edges. He’s given up on not touching himself with purpose, which Scott figured would happen sooner rather than later, and he’s jerking himself off now with slow, indulgent tugs. 

“I think it would be pretty easy to find out,” says Scott, sliding his palm up Derek’s side. Derek twitches when Scott brushes his thumb over the taut peak of one nipple, sucking in a shaky breath. “Are you taking notes?”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I’m—fuck, I’m taking notes. What’s your hypothesis?” 

“This isn’t a lab report,” interjects Derek. He glances at Stiles and Scott follows the line of his gaze, both of them watching the shiny pink head of Stiles’s dick bobbing over his fist. 

“Why are you both looking at me,” says Stiles, squirming in place, his blush spreading down the length of his throat. “Stop that. Be reasonable and go fuck on the bed. God, do I have to do everything around here?”

With Derek distracted by Stiles’s dick, Scott uses his tongue to figure out if Derek does have sensitive nipples.

For science.

(He does.)

oOo

Derek’s bed is the biggest and best thing in Derek’s entire unintentionally minimalist loft.

There are four pillows on it and a big thick duvet that feels like you’re sleeping in a cloud and the mattress is just the right level of firm.

Scott would happily drown in Derek’s bed. He’s not surprised that sometimes Derek refuses to get out of it in the mornings. It’s also perfect for mid-afternoon naps.

The fact that it comfortably fits three people is definitely an additional bonus. 

“Good, that’s good. He likes that. He likes it when you hold him down like that.”

Stiles is talking. He’s been talking for almost an hour now, unleashing a relentless flow of demanding words weighted with so much promise and the occasional sharp edge. He’s the conductor, orchestrating the plunge of Derek’s hips, adjusting the grip of his hands on Scott’s waist, offering tips on angle and speed and force. 

Scott buries his face in the crisp white linen of one of the pillows, breathes in deeply and then breathes out around an inarticulate moan. 

The cool sheets feel good, bunched up in his hands; Derek feels good, pressed hot against Scott’s back, his lips forming words against his skin; Derek’s dick feels _amazing_ , working him open with each deliberate thrust.

Scott just _feels good_. Scott feels like a livewire with all this heat pooled beneath his skin. Scott feels hypersensitive to light and sound and touch. 

(“How do you want—” Derek had said, and Scott had rolled onto his knees, propping himself up onto his elbows, Derek breathing in raggedly behind him.)

It’s not necessarily Scott’s favourite position, but it’s the one that gets him turned on the fastest; he likes the angle and the way his partner’s hips curve against his ass, the pressure and drive of being fucked into the mattress with deep, steady strokes. Derek’s folded over him like he could shield Scott from pain, his nose buried against the nape of Scott’s neck, one arm tucked snug around his waist, and Scott likes that, too. 

“This is like the holy grail of porn,” says Stiles. “Porn _wishes_ it was as hot as this. Scott, I wish you could see this. This is obscene, this is pure filth, the way you look stretched around him like this. How pink and swollen your—”

“I don’t need to see it, I can _feel_ it,” groans Scott, his face burning up. He arches his spine, biting his bottom lip at the slick friction as he rolls his hips back onto Derek’s cock, again and again.

Their skin is starting to slip, sweat springing up all over Scott’s overheated body, Derek’s fingers pressed tight against his belly.

“Is it good?” murmurs Stiles, and Scott can tell from his tone and pitch that he’s speaking to Derek. Scott pictures how Stiles must be sitting, or maybe kneeling, tucked up against Derek’s back, maybe an arm around his shoulder. The curve of his mouth angled right against the shell of Derek’s ear, whispering, but obviously Scott’s going to hear them. It’s for him, too. “Derek, do you like it? Do you like how good you’re making him feel? He fucking loves this, loves when someone takes their time with him. Filling him up with your big thick dick, god, you know, I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if you’d be uncut.”

Derek makes a strangled noise, the rhythm of his hips faltering. “ _Stiles_ ,” he hisses. He sounds utterly lost. “I… Scott?”

“It’s good,” says Scott breathlessly. “It’s so good, Derek, you’re so good.”

“You gotta trust me, big guy,” murmurs Stiles, his hands moving over Derek’s skin, his fingers finding the base of Derek’s cock, pressing curiously against Scott’s rim, teasing at where their bodies are joined. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles,” whimpers Scott, his thighs trembling. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

“Turn him over,” demands Stiles. “Don’t you want to see his face? Don’t you want to see what you’re doing to him? C’mon Derek. You’re doing so good.”

Scott almost sobs when Derek pulls out, shocked at the loss of heat and pressure, but then Derek’s big hands roll him gently onto his back and Scott scoots down the mattress, letting his legs fall open, his throbbing dick slapping wetly against his belly. 

“Dude,” mumbles Scott, blinking up at Derek’s hungry face. “You’ve got a really nice dick.”

“Thanks,” says Derek. He sounds earnest. Of course he does. He’s got a really nice _face_ , too, eyes darkened by arousal, eyelashes clumped together with sweat, all framed by those killer cheekbones and that soft, serious mouth. Scott wants to rub their faces together, overwhelmed by the desire to rub and scent and touch, but Derek’s too high up to reach. 

“What are you waiting for?” asks Scott gently, tilting his hips invitingly and hooking his ankles around the backs of Derek’s thighs. 

Then Derek glances sidelong at Stiles, who’s sitting exactly like Scott imagined he would be, arm curled over Derek’s shoulder, his face flushed blotchy red right below his cheekbones. 

Oh. _Oh_. 

“He’s such a good boy, isn’t he, Scott,” says Stiles, his voice low and careful. “Waiting for instructions. Waiting for me to tell him to fuck you.”

“Waiting for me to die of blue balls,” mumbles Scott, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Give Scotty what he wants, Derek,” says Stiles. 

“Okay,” says Derek. “Okay. I want—” He stops himself, swallowing hard, his gaze flickering hesitantly over Scott’s face. 

“What do you want?” asks Stiles quickly. He slides a hand into Derek’s hair, a quick, reassuring touch. 

Derek’s eyelids droop and he spreads his hands wide over Scott’s hips as he draws Scott into the cradle of his thighs, the head of his cock just nudging Scott’s rim, not quite pushing in. He sighs, shaking his head just a little. “I want you to tell me how to make Scott come.”

“Yeah?” asks Stiles, raising his eyebrows. “That’s what you want?”

Derek nods. “That’s what I want.”

When Derek finally sinks back into him, Scott sighs, giving into the urge to touch as he reaches up and curls his fingers around the back of Derek’s neck.

Drawing him in. 

Derek shifts to accommodate them, sweeping Scott’s legs up around his waist and bending over to brace himself over Scott, his hips flush with Scott’s ass, filling him up and pressing him down. 

“I think Scott would like it if you touched his cock,” says Stiles, and Derek obediently wraps his fingers around Scott’s hard-on, drawing a whimper out of him. 

And then Derek starts to move his hips again, long rolling strokes, cock dragging against Scott’s prostate, dragging against Scott’s tenuous grip on reason, dragging him down into mindless pleasure, and Stiles _keeps talking_ —

“Now jerk him off, just like that, you got it, give the head a little squeeze—”

Scott’s back arches right off the bed, his heels digging into Derek’s hips as he lets out the most embarrassing little noise, squirming into the tight grip Derek has on his dick. “Oh my _god_ ,” he gasps, “Oh my god, please, please, Derek, _please_ —”

“Almost,” says Stiles patiently, “just a little—more, he likes it when I rub my thumb right into the slit—”

“Ohmy _GOD_ ,” whimpers Scott, his entire body shuddering as orgasm crashes through him. 

He sees fucking _stars_ when he comes. 

(He also hears, faintly, as Stiles triumphantly announces, “And _boom_ goes the dynamite.”)

oOo

Sometime in the middle of the night, Scott wakes up in Derek’s big bed, sticky and naked and blinking uncertainty in the moonlight.

Derek really needs to get some curtains. Maybe they can go to IKEA. Maybe they can get some meatballs.

Yawning sleepily, Scott scratches his belly, dried come flaking under his fingernails. He’s lying on his back, sandwiched between Derek and Stiles. There’s a leg thrown over his hip (Stiles) and an arm draped loosely over his chest (Derek) and Scott really, desperately, severely needs a shower and a piss but he’s so comfortable he doesn’t want to move. 

Stiles is drooling on his shoulder. 

Derek’s not actually asleep. 

Scott closes his eyes and drifts off again.

oOo

The next morning, they find out Derek’s new shower comfortably fits three people, just like his bed.

“ _No_ , Stiles, it wasn’t intentional,” hisses Derek, his hair plastered down his forehead by the spray as he rubs suds into his chest hair. “I didn’t get it for _sex_. I got it for _showering_.”

“Let me tell you a thing,” says Stiles, getting down on his knees and pulling Derek forward by his hips. “Let me explain to you what is about to happen right now.”

And then he fists the base of Derek’s dick and sucks the head into his mouth and Derek chokes on whatever he was about to say. 

Scott lathers up his hair with Derek’s off-brand shampoo. “I think he means sex and showering aren’t mutually exclusive,” he offers helpfully. 

“Mm _hmm_ ,” hums Stiles, which just makes Derek shudder.

“Maybe he’d like it if you stuck a finger in his butt,” says Scott.

Derek’s gaze fixes on Scott, faintly accusing, but judging by the way his mouth drops open and his eyelids droop, whatever Stiles is doing, mouth or fingers or whatever, it feels good. 

Stepping up right behind Stiles, Scott ducks his head under the water, washing away the shampoo. From the floor of the shower, Stiles makes a vaguely protesting noise at the flood of sudsy water, so Scott winds his fingers into Stiles’s wet hair and tugs him a little deeper onto Derek’s dick. 

“Hhrnf,” says Derek, his entire body jerking forward. 

Scott grins, fingers tangling in Derek's chest hair, tugging lightly. Leaning in to kiss him, Derek’s mouth opens against his, hot and slick and wanting, and Scott swallows his moan when he comes. 

Stiles, on the other hand, doesn’t swallow anything, sputtering, “god, _jizz_ ,” as he spits against the wall. “There’s soap in my fucking eyes! Why would you rinse your hair _on top of me_? You guys are dicks!”

Derek huffs out a laugh, slumping a little against Scott, one trembling arm still propping him up against the wall. 

“I need help,” says Stiles. “My legs are asleep. Ow, fuck, ow. Do werewolves get pins and needles? Asking for a friend.”

Between the two of them, Derek and Scott get Stiles back onto his feet, where he stumbles on the wet tiles on shaky legs. Derek catches him around the waist, hauling him up straight, and Scott gives him a little push, laughing. 

The wide-eyed look on Stiles’s face as he gets within kissing distance of Derek’s face is kind of hilarious. Derek looks equally startled.

“Can you just—” says Scott, scrunching up his nose. “I want to smush your faces together and say ‘ _now kis_ s’.”

Stiles sputters. “I just sucked his dick!”

“I don’t mind,” says Derek, voice rough.

“Holy,” says Stiles weakly. “ _Shit_.”

“C’mon,” murmurs Scott encouragingly, squeezing Stiles’s upper arm. “Before the water runs cold.”

Scott can see the exact moment Stiles sets his jaw and gets stubborn about it, shedding his indecision like it’s an unneeded layer before he knocks Derek’s hand away from the wall, slides his thigh between Derek’s legs, and shoves him up against the glass door, pinning him there firmly as he catches Derek’s mouth in a hard kiss.

For a second, Derek just goes totally still. Then the moment unravels, and his arms come up around Stiles, burying in his hair and clutching at his shoulder, his eyes slipping shut as he makes a desperate little _noise_ —

“I knew you’d look amazing,” says Scott dazedly, tucking himself against Stiles, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

When Stiles and Derek part, it’s with a wet _pop_. 

“Wow,” mumbles Stiles. “Huh.”

Laughter bubbles out of Scott and he buries his face against Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Why are you laughing,” grumbles Stiles. 

“I’m just _happy_ ,” says Scott, grinning. “Don’t be a butt.”

Stiles shifts, his ass rubbing against Scott’s half-hard cock. “Oh, I can feel how _happy_ you are, all right.”

“What?” protests Scott. “It was hot!” He lifts his head, peeking at Derek over Stiles’s shoulder. 

Derek looks wrecked. Derek looks totally fucking wrecked, his mouth red and swollen, pupils blown wide. 

“You good?” asks Stiles, elbowing Derek gently in the ribs. 

“I’m good,” says Derek. His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I’m great.”

oOo

“I’m not sure what to do about this,” says Stiles, passing Scott the controller. “I live in a post-sex-with-Derek-Hale world. I live in an I’ve-had-Derek’s-dick-in-my-mouth world. I live in a world where I’ve entered into a polyamorous relationship. What a time to be alive.”

“This is Lego Batman,” says Scott, frowning as the Xbox starts up. “Did you put this in? I didn’t put this in.” He waves at the stack of games. “Get me Black Flag. I want Black Flag.”

“Are you even listening to me?” asks Stiles. “I’m having, like, half of a moment, here.”

“Derek’s dick in your mouth, yeah,” says Scott. “You’re having a dick moment.”

“So are you, apparently. Here,” says Stiles, rifling through the games on the table and finding the Black Flag disc in the Skyrim case. “As my alpha commands.”

“By your powers combined, I am Captain Alpha,” mumbles Scott, not really paying attention. Lego Batman is too much of a platformer for him to really ever have wanted to get the hang of it. He waits for Stiles to put in Black Flag. “So you’re okay with Derek. And his dick.”

“Yeah, dude,” says Stiles, digging out a handful of popcorn. “I am so okay with his dick. And, you know. The rest of him, I guess. His soft beard. The perfect slope of his nose. I like his jawline.”

“Can you Google where to find the last Mayan stone,” asks Scott. “Find a walkthrough?” 

Stiles obligingly drags Scott’s laptop onto his thighs and starts to type. “You can’t get it until after you find the Observatory.” 

Scott sighs. “Of course not.”

“Are you waiting for me to say I also like him for his personality and heart,” asks Stiles after a moment. 

“Maybe a little bit,” says Scott, the corner of his mouth turning up. 

“He’s not really a fuck-up anymore,” concedes Stiles. “He goes grocery shopping twice a week and cuts coupons and he communicates with at least like 75% more effectiveness. I could go so far as to say he’s actually pleasant company these days. He’s definitely got way more of a sense of humour that I remember.”

“But he’s not as funny as you, right?” says Scott mildly.

“Nobody is as funny as me,” says Stiles. “I’m the funny one. I’m Plucky Comic Relief. It says so on TV Tropes.”

“You’re on the internet too much,” says Scott. 

“I’m on the internet right now, looking up cheats _you requested,_ ” points out Stiles, his eyebrows raised.

“Walkthroughs are not cheating,” says Scott. “There are no rules in video games to prevent you from reading about other people’s instructions on how to play. I’m not finding codes to be invincible or clip through walls. It’s totally different. They sell player’s guides that tell you the same stuff!”

“Who would even spend money on one of those when it’s all available for free on the internet,” says Stiles. 

“Yo, where’s the last templar key?”

Stiles heaves a gusty sigh and starts to type. “Hold please.”

oOo

The following Friday, they get in the Jeep and go to the store with the intent of picking up groceries and then taking them to Derek’s place to make dinner for him.

Stiles takes charge of the cart, directing Scott to grab all the ingredients for tuna noodle casserole. They grab a pie from the bakery, too, and then head to Derek’s loft. 

Only when they let themselves in, it’s to find Lydia and Allison sitting on the big couch. 

Scott and Stiles freeze in the doorway while Lydia and Allison both look up at the same time, Lydia with a pen between her lips and Allison holding a dictionary. They’ve got notebook paper and books and binders spread out over the coffee table, and Lydia has a history textbook open on her lap. 

“Uh,” says Stiles. “Hey.”

“Hey,” says Allison. 

“Boys,” says Lydia crisply. 

“What are you guys doing?” asks Scott, carrying the grocery bags to the kitchen. “Where’s Derek?”

As soon as he asks, though, Scott realises Derek’s right there, across the room curled up on his bed, his breathing deep and even and his heart a steady _thump-thump_ in Scott’s ears. 

“ _We’re_ doing homework,” says Lydia. “Derek is sleeping.”

“Derek is sleeping,” echoes Stiles, confused. He follows Scott’s gaze to the bed, where Derek apparently feels safe enough to sleep while people just come and go from the loft. “ _Ohmygod_.”

Scott scratches his head. “Um—”

Allison shrugs. “He lets us come do homework sometimes. When the library is too busy and we get distracted at home. He usually just takes a nap. He made us a cake, once.”

“Speaking of homework,” says Lydia. She points at Scott with her pen. “Your personal essay—”

“—is totally, like, 95% finished and I’m going to email to you this week, I promise.”

“Derek Hale naps while you do homework and one time he made you a cake,” says Stiles. There’s something a little like wonder in his voice, but it’s also Stiles, and Stiles is not easily awed. 

“Stiles, you’re narrating,” says Allison, her head down as she highlights something in her notes. “We’re all in the room. We all see what’s happening.”

“Well,” says Stiles. “Okay then.” He shrugs, mostly to himself, and walks over to the cupboards to fish out a big pot for the noodles. “I’m glad we decided on casserole. There should be enough for everybody, if the werewolves in the room stick to human-sized portions.”

Across the room, Derek rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, dead to the world. 

Scott’s chest feels a little tight.

oOo

Scott sleeps for the first two days of spring break.

He’s not sure how much longer he can keep hours at Deaton’s with finals looming closer and the end of the school year rearing up like a spooked horse; he finished his personal essay with Lydia’s judicious editing and sent off his application packages for the three veterinary schools he’s chosen but he’s neck-deep in debilitating senior slump while every single one of his teachers doles out assignments and essays and tests like they’re the ones cramming. 

Luckily, he hasn’t got much homework this week, and he’s just so tired he can afford to catch up on sleep. 

On Monday, he drags himself out of his nest of blankets and goes to Stiles’s house, where he finds a blanket fort in the living room and Stiles tucked inside playing Pokemon on his Nintendo DS. 

“I have a three thousand word essay due in a week,” says Stiles, when Scott crawls inside and stretches out next to him. “But I’ve also got the Elite Four on the ropes. It’s getting harder and harder to gauge priorities.” 

“I can see the challenge,” mumbles Scott. He closes his eyes. He just slept on and off for like the last 48 hours but it smells like laundry detergent and Stiles’s shampoo in here and it’s just the right side of cozy. He dozes a little, startled awake by his phone buzzing in his pocket. 

**derek hale** : I’m leaving for new york tomorrow night  
 **derek hale** : can you please check on the loft and water the plant

Scott squints at the messages, one, and then the other, not sure if he’s still asleep or if the words just don’t make sense. He starts with the easy one: “When did Derek get a plant?”

“I dunno, it just appeared one day,” mumbles Stiles, his face illuminated by the screen of his DS. “He waters it every morning. He seems pretty intent on keeping it alive.”

“Right,” says Scott faintly. 

**scott mccall** : wait what  
 **scott mccall** : are you coming back??  
 **scott mccall** : derek  
 **scott mccall** : derek what

 **derek hale** : the apartment has been empty for two years  
 **derek hale** : the building is asking if I want to sell it  
 **derek hale** : so I have to go clear it out

 **scott mccall** : do you want us to come

“Derek is going to NYC tomorrow,” says Scott. “He’s—I guess the apartment he shared with Laura is—”

Stiles closes his DS and sits up, scowling. “He’s literally only just telling us now? What a douche.” He rubs his face and grabs his own phone. “I can check plane tickets, but who knows how expensive it’s going to be last minute like this. We can use my emergency credit card, I guess.”

 **derek hale** : you don’t have to

 **scott mccall** : did you have to wait this long to tell us  
 **scott mccall** : stiles is looking for plane tickets now

 **derek hale** : it’s not a big deal

 **scott mccall** : and here I thought you were almost a real boy  
 **scott mccall** : can you just send us your flight info so we can see if there are seats left

Derek doesn’t email them his flight number. Derek emails them two plane tickets. 

“He bought these like two weeks ago,” yells Stiles, when he opens the attachments. “He literally—I’m going to—”

“What about your essay?” asks Scott. 

“I’m going to make Derek write it,” promises Stiles. “On the plane, while I drink tiny bottles of booze that he’s going to buy for me.”

 **derek hale** : who’s going to water my plant though

Scott drops his phone on his face.

oOo

Lydia. Lydia waters his plant.

oOo

Stiles drinks one tiny bottle of booze and then goes to sleep, snoring noisily, his body curled into the window seat, head pillowed on his arm.

Derek drums his fingers on the armrest until Scott covers his hand with his own. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” asks Scott. “They’ve got Pacific Rim.”

“I’m supposed to write Stiles’s essay,” says Derek dryly, but it’s clear his attention is divided. Scott can feel the tremors of his muscles, tense and contained, telegraphing down his arm. 

“Stiles wrote it last night,” says Scott. “Why didn’t you ask if we wanted to come?”

Derek looks away, hesitates. “I didn’t want you to think you had to.”

“So you just bought the plane tickets and then figured you’d mention it casually,” huffs Scott. “And then you wouldn’t have to be embarrassed if you asked and we said no.”

“I didn’t...I guess. Yes,” says Derek. He sighs. “Laura and I, we owned the apartment.” He clears his throat. “I own it. But it’s empty, and the building made an offer. I’m never going to live there again. There’s no point keeping it.”

“Okay,” says Scott. “It’s cool. But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Derek sits quietly, accepting Scott’s words. 

Scott squeezes his knuckles.

oOo

It’s a small apartment, cluttered and cramped, and it doesn’t smell like much more than dust and stale air.

Derek drops his duffel bag by the door and disappears into the bathroom, leaving Scott and Stiles to snoop and explore. The kitchen is tiny, divided from the living room by a waist-high brick partition. The two bedrooms are off a narrow hallway next to the bathroom. One door is open, the other is closed.

None of the lights work, there’s a stack of mail piled up by the door that they tripped on coming in, and the trio of plants in the window are delicate brown husks. Scott touches one carefully with his finger and it flakes into nothing. 

“Well, it’s a good thing he emptied and unplugged the fridge before he left,” says Stiles from the kitchen. “Otherwise this place would smell pretty gross.”

Scott drags a fingertip across the coffee table and then writes his name in the dust. 

Derek emerges from the bathroom, then, his mouth sullen and his eyes bruised. He’s changed into yoga pants and a hoodie, standing in the hallway and staring into the middle distance. 

Scott looks at Stiles. Stiles shrugs. Derek curls and uncurls his fingers, making restless fists that make the muscles in his forearms tense. 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” says Derek, tugging on the drawstring of his pants. “You can sleep in—in my room.” He pointedly ignores the closed door that leads to Laura’s room and his nostrils flare.

To Scott, he reeks of grief.

“We’ll order some food,” says Scott. 

“There’s a place around the corner,” says Derek. “The takeout menus are in the bottom drawer in the kitchen and my wallet’s in my jeans if you need cash. I’m going to go talk to the super to see if we can get the lights and water turned on for a few days.” 

He disappears from the apartment, slamming the door.

oOo

Scott gets up at 2 am that night, tangled in Stiles and the sheets of the lumpy single bed, hot and thirsty.

On his way to the bathroom he finds Derek on the floor of Laura’s room, sitting cross-legged by her dresser. 

Ostensibly, he’s sorting her clothes, but in reality he’s just pressing his nose into one of her sweaters and breathing deep and rhythmic, filling his lungs with deep, even breaths. 

“Hey,” says Scott, keeping his voice low as he leans into the bedroom. 

Derek’s shoulders tremble, his thumbs worrying into the fabric of the shirt in his hands as he lowers it from his red, blotchy face. “They don’t smell like her anymore.” His voice is a wreck. “Nothing in here smells like her, I can’t find anything she hadn’t washed, I can’t—” He stops, like forcing out more words will hurt him. He makes a tiny, strained noise and puts down the sweater. 

He doesn’t resist when Scott drops down next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders. 

“I just wanted one thing that smelled like her,” says Derek. 

Scott wraps his arms around him tightly. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say.

oOo

Derek and Laura lived in this apartment for five years.

Scott can tell Derek was hoping that going through all their belongings would be something they could do quickly, filling up some bags and boxes and getting out of there in a couple of days at the most. 

It takes them nearly four days just to sort through everything and it doesn’t help when there’s a memory at every turn, Polaroid photos and movie ticket stubs, schoolwork and half-edited essays, clothes and CDs and books. Everything was left abandoned when Derek went looking for Laura and Derek hasn’t been back since. 

“I didn’t think we had this much stuff,” says Derek, sounding helpless. 

He doesn’t know what to keep, what to donate, what to _burn_. He’s a walking, talking ache, moving around the apartment in a daze, surreptitiously running his hands over nicks on the coffee table, resting his forehead against Laura’s bedroom door, closing his eyes and just listening to something Scott and Stiles can’t hear. 

In the end, Derek keeps Laura’s favourite sweater and bags up the rest of her clothes to donate. He doesn’t keep much, filling up just one box with photos, a handful of books, hardcopies of Laura’s essays, the aforementioned sweater, and a handful of jewelry and knickknacks. 

Stiles finds a note under the fridge in looping handwriting on paper that’s yellowed and crinkly and reads:

 **things derek hale likes:  
** 1\. literally nothing  
2\. wait maybe puppies are okay

 **things derek hale hates:  
** 1\. _everything_  
2\. (except puppies)

Derek screws up his mouth when he sees it, holding it between his fingers like it might crumble into dust if he’s not careful. It ends up in the box. Anything Laura’s hand-written, Derek keeps. Scott pretends not to notice that Derek sniffs everything, too, searching hopelessly for scraps of familiar scent.

It’s Scott who plugs in the answering machine, wondering if it still works, and the red light is blinking up at him indicating an unread message. 

“Derek?”

He’s across the room, opening and closing kitchen drawers and cabinets, making sure everything’s emptied out. “Mm?”

“You, uh. You’ve got a message.”

Derek looks up and blinks. “What?”

“A message. On the answering machine.”

“Right,” says Derek, his voice tight. “Okay.” He stands there looking at the blinking red light, rubbing his face with his hand. “I thought I…” he clears his throat. “You can press play. Who knows who left it.”

Scott knows, and Derek knows, but Scott presses play anyway and Laura’s voice crackles back to life.

“Derek? Derek, pick up. Stop ignoring the phone.” There’s a burst of static. “The reception sucks. Look, I’m beginning to think maybe you should come out here. Something’s going on. Look, I know it takes you forever to check this thing and the internal clock on it is busted, so it’s like eight PM, Monday night. You’re probably in class. Just call me, okay? I need to talk to you about—” another burst of static. “—because I think something’s happening to him. Okay. I’m starved, I’ll talk to you later. Take care, D. Love you.” 

Laura’s voice cuts out, and Scott looks up to where Derek is leaning on the brick partition between the kitchen and the living room, his head down and his shoulders hunched like he can barely keep himself standing upright.

“I had already left for Beacon Hills,” he says at length. “If she left that message on Monday night, I skipped class and went to the airport because something felt…wrong. By the time I got there, she was already dead.” 

_Take care, D. Love you._

“Derek,” says Scott, keeping his voice soft and firm. 

Derek looks up, red-eyed and ragged. 

“Do you want me to save this message?”

Silently, Derek nods.

That night, Stiles pulls the mattress off Derek’s bed, piling it high with pillows and blankets, and the three of them sleep together on the floor, Derek sandwiched between Scott and Stiles. 

He mutters about it, squirms and complains about Stiles’s “bony elbows” but goes obligingly limp between them, letting Stiles use his chest as a pillow and turning his nose against Scott’s temple, breathing out a wistful, gusty sigh.

oOo

In the morning, Scott leaves before Derek and Stiles get up, intent on bringing them breakfast. The apartment has been reduced to a small mountain of neatly-labeled boxes and a bunch of garbage bags sitting by the door, all of Derek and Laura’s belongings culled and sorted; everything looks much smaller and emptier now.

Scott pulls on his jeans and grabs the keys from table, shoving his wallet and his phone into his pockets. Stifling a yawn, he heads out into the grey drizzle of the morning. 

There’s a bakery a block away that makes breakfast sandwiches, so Scott orders six, carrying the fragrant paper bag into the coffee shop to get coffee for him and Derek and an obnoxious sugary frappuccino for Stiles. 

Lydia calls him as he’s walking back, juggling the sandwiches and the Styrofoam tray of drinks as he shoves his phone between his shoulder and ear. 

“Lydia, is everything okay?”

“Of course it is,” she replies. “What wouldn’t be okay?”

“It’s not even seven. Why are you up so early? Or, uh, late.”

“Allison and I decided to housesit for Derek. To make sure to provide the best possible care for his plant.” There’s muffled voices in the background, music, a resonant beat.

Scott smothers a smile. “You’re having a party.”

“I can’t believe you’d even suggest that,” gasps Lydia. She sounds a little drunk. A door opens, bringing with it a flood of noise, and then it shuts again, and the party sounds fade again. He catches Allison’s laugh but can’t quite make out her words. “He said we could, anyway,” says Lydia after a moment of brief conversation with Allison. “As long as it’s all cleaned up before he gets back.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” says Scott. “We just have to drop off all the stuff we’re donating, move the rest, and then hand over the keys this afternoon. We got a hotel room tonight, and then we fly out tomorrow morning.”

“Come straight to the loft, then,” says Lydia. “We’ll all be here. Gotta go.” She hangs up, and Scott, has to pause in front of Derek’s building to trade out his phone for Derek’s keys. 

When he gets upstairs, the door to Derek’s bedroom is closed. He puts the coffee and paper bag full of sandwiches on the coffee table, kicking off his sneakers and padding barefoot back to the bedroom, pushing the door open quietly. 

Derek and Stiles haven’t quite gotten up yet. 

They’re lying face to face on the tangle of sheets and blankets, forehead to forehead, knees pulled up, mirrors of one another.

Derek’s eyes are closed, and Scott would think he was still sleeping if he wasn’t speaking softly, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “I miss her, I miss her, I miss her—” while Stiles’s eyes are wide open, his fingers curled tight around Derek’s arm, securing, grounding. “—I miss her so _much_.”

“I know,” says Stiles, “I know, Derek, I know. I know, buddy.”

Derek makes a noise, small and choked, and Scott is so overwhelmed by the raw ache of Derek’s pain he just needs to be touching him, right now. He drops to his knees on the mattress and scoots up close behind him to curl around the hunched curve of Derek’s back and shoulders. 

Derek’s always seemed so broad and solid but he’s trembling now, huddled between them.

Scott presses his nose against the nape of Derek’s neck, snuffling at him, and sighs softly as Derek relaxes. 

“Hey,” whispers Scott. “Hey, Derek.” He tucks his arms around Derek’s belly. 

“Hey,” says Derek, voice watery.

“Go back to sleep,” says Stiles. “It’s early.”

Derek does, almost immediately, like it’s a relief to obey.

oOo

It’s late afternoon by the time they empty out the apartment.

“We’re not sleeping here, right?” demands Stiles, looking around at the dusty linoleum. “I will straight-up stage a mutiny if we’re sleeping here tonight. Derek stripped all the sheets and gave them to Goodwill. I’d rather sleep on a bench in the park than sleep here.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “We’re staying in a hotel. I don’t want to sleep here either.”

“Then let’s go,” says Stiles. He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulders, squeezing. “Come on, Derek. We’re done.” 

Scott shoulders his backpack, tossing Stiles his duffel, while Derek goes restlessly from room to room, checking that they haven’t forgotten anything for the tenth time, checking the locks on the windows, turning off lights, shutting doors.

“Derek,” calls Scott gently, holding out his backpack to him. “Come on, dude. It’s cool. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” says Derek. He glances into Laura’s bedroom, his hand on the doorknob. There’s nothing inside, but Derek isn’t really looking anyway. He pulls the door closed. “Okay.” He takes the bag from Scott, pulling it over his shoulder, before scooping up the lone duffel bag packed with the meager belongings he’s decided to keep from the apartment. 

“Hey,” Derek says to Stiles, tossing him the keys. “Make yourself useful and lock the door behind us.”

It’s Stiles’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sure, it’s not like I carried a flea-ridden couch down three flights of stairs with you, or anything. Next time you move, make sure your apartment building has a freight elevator.”

“It didn’t have fleas,” says Derek flatly, the corners of his mouth turning down. Scott ducks his head and chuckles, laying his hand against the small of Derek’s back; Derek relaxes into it, letting Scott guide him out of the apartment. 

“Sure,” says Stiles following them both out into the hallway and turning to lock the door behind them. “Whatever you say, big guy.”

“We just have to drop the keys off with the real estate agent,” says Derek. “And then we can go to the hotel and order all the room service you want.”

oOo

The hotel room Derek booked has one king-sized bed.

“Uh, says Derek, blinking at it when they jostle through the door. He rubs his face and avoids looking at either of them. “I forgot, I—I thought you weren’t going—I mean, I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“Hey, nice,” says Stiles, slapping Derek on the shoulder. “That bed is huge. Ooh, there’s a mini bar!”

“No,” says Scott. “You know the rule. The mini bar is off limits, Stiles.” 

“Rule?” echoes Derek, scratching speculatively at his hair. His eyebrows pinch together.

“Stiles isn’t allowed to open mini bars in hotels,” says Scott, dropping his duffle on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Ever. Anywhere.”

“He is totally exaggerating,” scoffs Stiles. “It’s not like I knew how much everything would cost.”

“That’s the point,” says Scott firmly. 

“We can order room service,” says Derek, sitting on the edge of the bed and sighing. “My treat.”

“ _Derek’s treat_ ,” says Stiles to Scott. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” says Scott, rolling his eyes. “Be good.”

“I’m offended at the implication that we’d be anything _but_ good,” says Stiles, flopping onto the bed. “What could possibly go wrong.” 

Derek groans. 

Scott closes the door to the bathroom behind him, flipping on the fan and leaning back against the door, shutting his eyes and letting out a slow, measured breath. 

He takes his time, undressing and leaving his clothes on the floor, turning on the water and letting it run hot as he unwraps the little hotel soap that smells like wax. He can hear Stiles and Derek over the running water, arguing over the room service menu, as he ducks under the spray, pulling the shower curtain shut.

The soap doesn’t lather well, but Scott does his best, letting the half-hearted bickering wash over him with the water, rubbing at his tired muscles and scrubbing at his skin. There’s a miniature bottle of shampoo, too, so Scott squeezes some out onto his fingers, trying not to use the whole bottle. It has the consistency of oil, smells acidic, and washes out just as poorly as he shoves his head under the spray and rinses his hair. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, Derek and Stiles are sitting on the bed unwrapping sandwiches. There’s a Styrofoam container on the bedcover that smells like French fries. Scott’s mouth waters. 

“I got you roast beef,” says Stiles, waving a sandwich at him. “C’mon, bro.”

oOo

The hotel room bed is a lot smaller than Derek’s bed.

There’s not a lot of room to stretch out, elbows and knees and legs everywhere, Stiles squashed between them like a cranky burrito. He keeps pulling the covers off Scott’s shoulders, rolling over endlessly like he’s trying to build a nest around himself. 

“If you don’t stop moving,” growls Derek at four in the morning, “I’m going to smother you with my pillow.”

“It’s too hot,” complains Stiles, knocking Scott in the shins with his knee. 

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so hot if you hadn’t taken all the blankets,” mumbles Scott. 

“Or insisted on sleeping between two werewolves,” says Derek. His voice is muffled; he’s lying on his belly with his face buried in his pillow. 

“Aren’t you two a couple of know-it-alls,” snaps Stiles. He kicks at the tangle of blankets trapping his legs and ends up shoving the comforter onto the floor. 

Scott, who’s lying under the air conditioning vent, shivers. “I need that.”

“If we’re all awake, why don’t we do something?” suggests Stiles. “Play a game or watch TV or something.”

“I’d like to be sleeping,” Derek says very slowly. “I _was_ sleeping.”

“What about my needs?” asks Stiles, directing his question up at the ceiling. “I can’t sleep. I’m hot and uncomfortable. It’s been a very difficult day, emotionally. I’m wired, guys. I gotta burn this off somehow.”

“Stiles,” groans Scott. “Do you have something in mind?” 

“Are you seriously asking me to spell it out?” 

Scott opens his eyes, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Stiles is lying on his back, his face silhouetted in profile against the faint light coming in from the window. On his other side, Derek rises up on his elbow, leaning over Stiles. 

“Are you suggesting sex at four in the morning because you’re _wired_ , Stiles?” demands Derek. 

“You get a gold star,” says Stiles. “You deciphered my code.”

“You can’t be serious,” says Derek. 

“He’s serious,” says Scott. He rubs a hand over his face and then sits up. “He’s pretty much always serious.”

“This is ridiculous.” Derek sounds exhausted. “You are ridiculous.”

“So fuck me and shut me up,” counters Stiles. He’s speaking directly to Derek, his voice tense and challenging. “You want to sleep, I want to sleep. Let’s make this happen, Derek.”

In the stifled heat of the dark room, Scott is very aware of the rapid thump of Stiles’s heart. He’s sure Derek must be, as well. Derek is broadcasting fatigue and irritation on every frequency but Scott can also smell the subtle shift of his body chemistry as he reacts to the restless need from Stiles. 

Scott himself is suddenly interested, shaking off his muddled sleepy tension and curling his fists into the blanket, locking eyes with Derek over Stiles’s head. 

“He’s very annoying,” Derek says to him. 

“I know,” says Scott. 

“Hey,” says Stiles. “I resemble that remark.”

“Okay,” says Derek. “ _Okay_ , Stiles.”

oOo

They don’t turn on any lights.

In the dark and the quiet, Derek rolls Stiles onto his back. Stiles goads and pushes and demands that Derek give and give and _take_ and Derek does it with tempered patience and the deliberate spread of his fingers. 

Scott lets the heat build in his belly and watches the play of shadows angled over Derek’s bare body. 

In the tangle of crumpled sheets, Stiles twists and arches, Derek’s fingers buried inside him. Stiles is loud in the stillness of the room, loud in his rough, uneven panting, loud in his whimpered begging. Stiles is just _loud_ , drawing their attention and focusing it. 

Derek is scenting him, brushing his nose against Stiles’s collarbone and up the length of his neck, taking slow, calming breaths. Scott soaks them both in, closing his eyes for a few breaths, and when he opens them again, it’s to Derek sinking into Stiles. They sigh in tandem; Scott shivers.

Outside of this bed, nothing else matters. Tomorrow they go home. They can deal with the rest of the world in the morning. 

“You can give it to me harder than that,” says Stiles, curling his fingers around the back of Derek’s neck, drawing him down. 

Derek’s lips draw back in the caricature of a snarl but he tucks his face forward, the tip of his nose tracing Stiles’s jaw. His hips shift, strokes picking up speed, pinning Stiles flat. 

“That’s it,” groans Stiles, tilting his head back, baring his throat. 

The sound Derek makes is close to a sob, and Scott can’t take the heavy press of their arousal any longer. He finds his spot behind Derek, settling a hand on his hip, notching his hips against the curve of Derek’s ass.

“Oh my god, yes,” says Stiles. His hand finds its way around Scott’s wrist, squeezing insistently. “Scotty. Fuck him. You gotta—fuck that tight ass of his, right into me. _Please_.”

Between them, Derek shudders uncontrollably. He leans back, finding Scott’s thigh and gripping it. With the intention of grounding him, Scott wraps his arm around Derek’s waist, murmurs, “Is that what you want?” into Derek’s ear. 

Derek grunts. Scott can see the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his lips part around his unspoken response. Scott hesitates, strokes his stomach encouragingly, and then Derek sighs and nods. “Yeah. Yes, Scott. Want it.”

It’s a little bit weird. Scott’s never tried to have sex with them at the same time before. Derek slows down his strokes, leans over Stiles and props himself up with a hand on the mattress, and Scott slides two fingers into the upturned curve of his ass, works on timing the plunge of his fingers with the gentle downward thrust of Derek’s cock into Stiles. 

With a stutter of his hips, Derek gasps. “Scott. _Please_.”

“What?” mumbles Scott, crooking his fingers, searching, teasing. Beneath them both, Stiles squirms and a groan dies in his throat. He’s flushed in the moonlight, heat rashed red across his throat and chest, burning high in his cheeks. He hasn’t stopped begging for more or telling them what to do. 

Each time he’s gotten too worked up, Scott’s response has been to whisper, “Kiss him,” into Derek’s ear, delighted by how quick Derek is to obey. 

“I think he wants you to fuck him,” says Stiles. 

“I think I can do that,” says Scott. 

Derek tenses when Scott finally pushes into him, while Stiles lets out a punched-out groan at the change in pressure and weight. 

“Okay?” asks Scott quietly. 

“More than okay,” says Derek. 

Together, in the dark and the quiet, they find their rhythm.

oOo

They don’t really talk about New York after they get back.

School starts back up, and it’s the last push towards graduation. College acceptance letters start rolling in for everyone, and Scott begins to wonder what Derek is going to do when they all part ways for different parts of the country. 

One day in May, he gets an email from Derek. Attached is a PDF copy of Derek’s resume. The subject line is empty and the body just says, “Can you please look at this for me.”

Scott opens the file, and finds a succinct, neatly-formatted summary of Derek’s work experience. He’s held a series of jobs over the years, never for a particularly long stretch of time. All his references are up to date. It looks good. He emails Derek back telling him so, and wishes him luck. He doesn’t ask where Derek plans on applying for jobs. If Derek wants to tell him, he will.

“Scotty,” calls Stiles from downstairs. “Yo, there’s mail!”

“Where’s it from?” yells Scott, jumping out of his chair and tripping briefly on the carpet as he leaves his bedroom and runs down to collide with Stiles in the kitchen. 

“Oof,” grunts Stiles, righting them both with a hand braced against the wall. The other hand holds a big envelope out to Scott, Stiles waving it and grinning. “Berkeley. Looks like an acceptance package.”

“Shut up,” says Scott. “Don’t jinx it, dude!”

“You know they don’t send out envelopes this big for rejection letters,” says Stiles. “Open it!”

Scott bites his lip and tears open the envelope. As he reads the letter, Stiles leans over his shoulder, his breath puffing against Scott’s cheek. 

“Told you so,” murmurs Stiles. “Proud of you, Scotty. Guess we need to find a place to live, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Scott. He’s grinning so hard he feels like he’s going to pull a muscle in his face. “I guess we do.”

oOo

He keeps worrying about Derek, who refuses to talk about his own plans, if he even has any. Scott doesn’t like the idea of him staying in Beacon Hills alone.

Two weeks later, Derek forwards him a registration email for two courses at Berkeley City College. 

“I got a job,” says the email. “I’m going to take classes and work part time at the college bookstore. Stiles says we could get an apartment together. What do you think?”

Scott lets out a slow, relieved breath.

“I think it sounds great,” he types. “I think it sounds _amazing_.”


End file.
